


Winter Quarters

by Teeelsie



Series: Clint/Dick Rare Pair [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Nightwing (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Animal death but it's not gratuitous or cruel, Because Ya Know, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic? I guess, M/M, Obliquely implied/referenced child sexual abuse, Protective Dick Grayson, Rarepair, Slow Build, There are only 8 other fics with the Clint Barton/Dick Grayson tag, Underage Kissing, Young Dick Grayson, Young clint barton, at least at first, like SUPER rarepair, more like it dies of old age, referenced abuse of a child, they're KIDS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: "The winter that Dick Grayson is eleven years old, the other boy shows up for the first time.  He’s small - can’t be more than ten years old - but there’s a curious intensity to him that makes him seem older, and that has Dick’s eyes flicking back and forth between his own textbook and where the boy seems to be burning a hole in his with a laser focus.They’re at winter quarters in Florida, a borderless area in the middle of the state where traveling circuses and carnivals lay low during the cold and rainy months of October through March."Dick Grayson and Clint Barton:  two boys, raised in the circus, destined to be superheroes.  Of course they cross paths.EDIT, 10-2-20:  If anybody's still out there, I'm back at this fic - I should have the last chapter posted soon!





	1. 11/12

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first, to the three people out there who actually clicked on this rare-pair fic and are maybe reading - thanks! 
> 
> Second, I'm aware that I'm completely fucking with the DCU timeline here, but it's fic and we can do what we want. 
> 
> Each chapter of the first part of this 'verse will track a year in their lives. The second part will track them as they're older, through some canon events, weaving in and out of each other's lives.
> 
> Fair warning, this is a WIP, and RL is busy, but I've got the next two chapters pretty much done and the rest sketched out. And I ALWAYS finish my fic; I'm much too compulsive to leave a story hanging forever.
> 
> Much gratitude to arsenic and thepartyresponsible for sharing their perspectives on general Dick Grayson personality characteristics. They gave me great jumping off points to work with and form the core of my Dick (heh). Also thanks to dc_midnighter, who encouraged me in this madness.
> 
> Last, but never least, thanks to Jackdaws45 and MillyVeil for their always helpful feedback and beta assistance. Of course I messed with this after they returned it, so if you see any issues, they're all on me.

The winter Dick Grayson is eleven years old, the other boy shows up for the first time. He’s small - can’t be more than ten years old - but there’s a curious intensity to him that makes him seem older, and that has Dick’s eyes flicking back and forth between his own textbook and where the boy seems to be burning a hole in his with a laser focus.

They’re at winter quarters in Florida, a borderless area in the middle of the state where traveling circuses and carnivals lay low during the cold and rainy months of October through March. A lot of the circus folk and carnies earn extra money during the off-season picking oranges in the vast acres of citrus groves that seem to go for miles in every direction. 

There’s an old revival camp about a mile down the road from where the Grayson’s park their trailer, and in the center of it is a building that serves as the makeshift school when the carnies are there. The upper-halves of the walls on the six-sided structure are all wooden awnings that swing up from the bottom and are held open with long poles. Since there’s no electricity, they’re always open, rain or shine, so that the students can see what they’re supposed to be reading. They don’t have desks; instead they sit at picnic tables that the roustabouts have moved in from the grounds around the building.

Carnie kids don’t typically assimilate well at regular schools, and the school districts are just as happy not to have them popping in and out for a few months of the year. It’s disruptive, they say. And most carnie kids are just as happy not to be subjected to the rigid structure of a traditional education. School in winter quarters is a looser thing. Their teacher isn’t really an actual teacher, just someone from one of the troupes whose maybe got more education than most. The various outfits all pool a little bit of money to pay them. It’s enough of a front that it keeps the authorities off their backs. This way works better for everyone.

School is only in the mornings, since being in winter quarters doesn’t mean there isn’t work to do or acts to practice. There are probably about 40 or 50 school-age carnie kids scattered throughout the area, but they attend erratically, so on any given day maybe 15 or 20 will appear at school. If it’s raining, fewer. The past few years it’s only been Dick, and Jenny Schmidt – a 16-year-old contortionist with the Lewis outfit – who are there every day. And this year, the new boy.

Dick doesn’t really need it – his parents have kept up his education themselves during the endless hours on the road and the long days of waiting for showtime – but he goes anyway. It’s a change of pace for him, and it’s fun to be with kids his age. But the new boy seems eager for it. Dick can see the way he hangs on every word, the way he concentrates on his reading, and takes care with his meager supplies. 

The boy slips in at the last moment most mornings and is the first to bolt out the door at noon. During their morning recess/break, Dick looks for him outside but never spots him. He wants to seek him out, find where he disappears to, but the other kids clamor for him to join them, so he does, quickly getting caught up in whatever game is decided upon. But the boy’s complete anonymity has Dick’s curiosity piqued like crazy. He spends the entire first week trying to catch the boy’s eye, but he never looks around. So on Friday, Dick watches him at the end of the day and when he spies him slipping out the door a few minutes before the teacher is going to dismiss them, Dick is up like a shot, darting after him.

“Dick Grayson!” the teacher calls after him.

Dick smiles and gives her a salute as he’s halfway out the door. “See you next week, Miss Temple!”

Dick runs after him. “Hey,” he calls, and the boy turns, looks at him warily. “Hi,” Dick says when he catches up. “I haven’t seen you before.”

The boy’s eyes shift sideways quickly and then back. They are an unknowable color, changing from blue to green to grey with every slight movement of his head and change of angle.

“I’ve been at school all week.”

“Right. I mean, here in Florida. At winter quarters.”

The boy shrugs. “Haven’t been here before.” He starts walking again.

Dick hustles after him. “Um, I’m Dick Grayson. My family’s ‘The Flying Graysons’. We’re acrobats with Haly’s Circus.”

The boys nods. “I know.”

“Oh.” Dick has a vague awareness that his family is well known in the circus world, but he’s still surprised this new kid would know who he is. “So, what’s your name?”

He gives Dick a side-eye and hesitates for a few seconds before saying, “Clint Barton.”

“What outfit’re you with?” Dick asks.

Another hesitation. “Carson’s.”

He nods. “I’ve heard of them.” Not all good things, but Dick doesn’t say that. “What do you do? Are you in the act?”

Clint shrugs. “Back-yard boy, mostly. But they say if we work hard, me and my brother Barney could do more someday.”

Dick’s about to ask if he hopes to perform in an act, when they’re interrupted.

“_Clint!_” someone yells, and they both turn to see another boy, maybe a few years older than Dick. He’s got reddish-brown hair instead of Clint’s towhead, but with the same sharp eyes and cut of the jaw, there’s no mistaking them for anything but brothers. “Come on, you’re late!” he yells with an edge of impatience.

“I gotta go.”

“Sure. See you at school next week?”

Clint’s mercurial eyes study Dick for a few seconds before he says, “I’ll be here,” then turns and starts to trot away.

“Hey, Clint,” Dick calls after him, and the other boy stops and looks back. “How many oranges grow on a tree?”

Clint furrows his brow and glances at the grove of orange trees off to his left, then back at Dick. “Um…”

Dick grins. “All of them!”

It takes a second for Clint to catch on, and when he does, a smile starts to crack on his face before he quashes it, rolls his eyes, and turns back to follow his brother.

Dick laughs. “I saw you start to smile!” he yells, then heads home, still grinning and already looking forward to school the next week.

* * *

Clint is not like other carnie kids Dick knows. Most circus workers know that no matter what your official job is, part of working in a circus is being something of a talker, selling the show at every opportunity, so most everyone Dick knows is kind of a show off, easy with words, even if they aren’t saying much of anything. Clint, though, is different; he’s reserved and seems to want to fade into the background. He’s mysterious and interesting. But Dick makes friends with pretty much everyone he meets so he’s determined to make friends with Clint, too.

On Monday, Dick lingers outside the ‘school’, waiting for Clint to arrive. When Miss Temple rings the bell and calls the kids in, Dick starts to worry that Clint isn’t going to show, but then he seems to materialize out of nowhere. He looks surprised to see Dick waiting but doesn’t say anything as they slip in together just as the teacher is collecting homework. Dick settles next to him at a picnic table near the back. He’s determined to crack this nut and he looks for any opening for quiet conversation.

It’s doesn’t take very long, but it’s not Dick who initiates it. Clint’s good at math but sometimes Dick struggles with it for a while until things finally sink in. Math has been hard for him lately. Clint notices him struggling and quietly talks him through the word problems that Dick hasn’t yet been able to make sense of. He’s patient and kind about it, and Dick sticks to it doggedly until something clicks in his head and he finally gets it. He gives Clint a genuine thanks. The other boy smiles shyly in return, and Dick thinks maybe it’s a start.

Half-way through the morning when they’re all quietly reading, Dick pulls out the snack that his mom sends with him every day. Today it’s a small baggie of graham crackers. He nibbles on them and reads quietly. A few minutes later, when he looks up from his book, it’s to see Clint staring at the food.

“You want some?” Dick asks quietly, so he doesn’t disturb the other kids. He pokes the baggie in Clint’s direction.

Clint startles and looks up at Dick and his face flushes. He sticks his nose back into his geography book. “No.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need them all.”

“I’m not hungry,” he mumbles without looking back at Dick.

Dick watches for a moment, then shrugs and goes back to reading his own book and crunching on his crackers.

* * *

It turns out Clint isn’t ten, he’s a year older than Dick - so twelve - just slight for his age. And like Dick, he likes to climb. Dick had planned to coax Clint into joining them in whatever game commenced during recess, but instead, he follows Clint, who scales the tallest tree in the park. It’s an oak, a lone sentinel in the sea of surrounding orange trees. From here they can see and hear the other kids, who don’t seem to know they’re being watched.

Clint climbs to the tip-top, the highest branch bowing a little under his weight, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Dick settles comfortably into the ‘V’ of two branches just below. “You’re not afraid of heights.”

“I like being up high.”

Dick can see his eyes scanning the horizon. “How come?”

Clint looks thoughtful before he replies. “From a distance, you can see things coming.”

Well, that’s true, but Dick isn’t sure why it matters or why Clint says it so seriously.

“Is this where you were all last week during recess?”

“Uh huh.”

It feels weird knowing that Clint may have been watching him every day without Dick realizing it. “How come?”

“Just getting the lay of the land.”

“Why?”

“So I know what to expect.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Well, like that kid in the orange shirt. He’s a bully, but he’s sly about it. He says things that make other kids feel bad in a round-about way, but then pretends he’s their friend. And the boy in the green shirt. He acts tough, but if it comes down to it, he always finds a reason not to fight someone. Or the girl in the red jacket. She’s way smarter than she lets on.”

Everything Clint said is right, Dick realizes, though he’d never really put the thoughts together in his head that way. But, “You could have learned the same things if you played with us last week instead of just watching.”

“I like to know what I’m walking into.”

Dick huffs. “You sound like you’re in a mafia movie or something.”

Clint shrugs unapologetically.

It takes several days, and some unsuccessful fits and starts, where Clint looks at him wary and suspicious, but eventually, Dick starts to think he and Clint are becoming friends. Clint always scales the tree at recess, and most of the time, Dick follows. Little by little, with careful questions and gentle prodding, Clint reveals bits and pieces of himself. Dick learns that he and Barney joined Carson’s late in the summer when the circus was passing through Iowa. Barney doesn’t go to school because he works in the orange groves in the mornings before he and Clint have to be back at the main Carson encampment to take care of the animals. The circus work earns them a spot in the bunkhouse, but unlike the summer season when the show is bringing in money and they eat communally, in winter quarters, the cookhouse is open, but if you want to eat there, you have to pay, so Barney picks oranges to earn money to feed them both.

A few days in, when Dick finally presses him about where Clint and Barney’s parents are, Clint looks away and tells him that they’re dead.

It’s awkward because Dick’s never known a kid whose parents have died and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say in that situation. He does his best with, “I’m sorry.” Clint doesn’t answer.

The conversation has made Dick sad and he doesn’t know what else to say, so they stop talking. Without his friend to focus on, Dick’s eyes and attention eventually drift toward the Beezus animal menagerie about a quarter mile down the road. The lion cages and elephant pen are visible, though just barely. Dick smiles to himself.

“Hey, Clint.”

“Yeah?” he answers absently.

“Why do you never see elephants hiding in trees?”

Clint gives him a curious look and starts to open his mouth to reply, when Dick cuts him off. “Because they’re so good at it!”

Clint blinks at him. “You have terrible jokes.”

“Come on, they’re funny!” Dick insists.

Clint rolls his eyes, but then a second later he huffs and Dick laughs and then Clint’s laughing, too.

Feeling happy that he made Clint laugh, when their teacher rings the bell and the two boys start their descent down the tree, Dick swings from one branch to another and then releases from several feet up and does a showoff-y flip before sticking a perfect landing.

A moment later, Clint’s by his side. “That was pretty smooth. You’re good.”

Dick beam; he loves what he does and loves when people appreciate it. “If you want, I could teach you.”

Clint freezes. “Really?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah, sure.” Dick’s grinning and happy again to have cheered up his new friend.

“Why would you do that?”

The smiles fades from Dick’s face and he blinks. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, genuinely confused by Clint’s question.

Clint narrows his eyes at Dick and searches his face; it makes Dick feel squirmy and uncomfortable, but he holds his ground. He _did_ mean it. After a long moment, Clint’s eyes flicker and he nods once. “Okay,” he says.

Miss Temple rings the bell again, this time pointed in their direction. “C’mon, we better go,” Dick says, nudging Clint’s shoulder with his own and grinning.

The smile he gets in return is guarded, but looks real enough, and Dick figures that’s something.

* * *

Dick likes Clint. He’s smart and funny, and once he breaks through his initial standoffishness, he’s friendly. By the end November, they’ve become fast friends and are largely inseparable at school. By the middle of December, he’s finally managed to redirect Clint away from the tree on some days and they’ve started playing football with the other kids.

Besides hanging around together at school, they start to spend their evenings together, often in one of the many Big Tops that’re set up on a nearby fairground. All of the acts use them to practice old and new routines alike during the off season, but there are enough of them that they can usually find one unoccupied. They strike an unspoken deal: Dick begins to teach Clint basic aerialist moves, and afterward, Clint teaches Dick how to work through the mystifying math problems.

Dick’s never seen anyone as determined as Clint is to learn (unless he throws himself into the mix), and he picks things up quickly. He’s also fearless, just like Dick. He watches Dick and then copies how he dives and tumbles and walks on his hands. And Clint’s starting to smile and laugh regularly, which makes Dick smile and laugh more, too. Sadly, Clint utterly fails at appreciating Dick’s fine sense of humor.

* * *

Clint doesn’t show up at school one Monday and Tuesday in January and Dick tells himself its nothing to worry about – he’s probably just sick or something. But still, he finds he’s hugely relieved when his friend slips in the door to class a half hour late on Wednesday. At recess, Clint scrambles up to the top of the tree before Dick can even say hello.

“Where you been?” Dick asks when he gets to his perch across from Clint. Clint had long ago moved down so they sat at the same level.

Clint just stares off into the distance. “Been trying to get hired on at the orange groves. They all say I’m too young or too small,” he says, his voice hard and frustrated.

“Why are you doing that?”

“Barney got in a fight with a townie on Friday night and got arrested. He’s in jail.” He bites the words out. They’re angry on the surface, but Dick thinks he hears something else underneath: fear.

“For how long?”

Clint wraps his arms around himself. “I don’t know. We don’t have any money so I can’t bail him out.” he answers grimly. “Mr. Carson says that since he’s only 16, they probably won’t hold him for more than a week, but it could be longer.”

This math is easy for Dick. If Barney was arrested on Friday, Clint probably hasn’t eaten a meal for at least three or four days. Unless someone at Carson’s helped out, but as a troupe they have a reputation for being more unfriendly than generous, so Dick doubts it. Plus, now that he’s looking, Clint is gaunt, the bones on his face standing out in sharper relief than usual. He probably hasn’t gone entirely hungry; Dick’s noticed how Clint can spot oranges that have been missed by the pickers and is always scrambling up a tree to glean them. Sometimes he tucks them away in his pocket, but sometimes he eats them immediately. Dick always thought Clint just really loved oranges. Now he’s beginning to wonder. An uncomfortable knot forms in the pit of Dick’s stomach.

“What’re you going to do?” Dick asks.

Clint blinks at him then looks away again. “Dunno.”

“You can eat with us.”

“I don’t need your handouts,” Clint snaps, turning to glare at him.

Dick scowls right back. “You’re my friend, Clint. It’s not a handout if we’re friends. It’s sharing.”

He can see Clint warring with himself about how to answer. Before he can come to a decision, Dick comes to one of his own, and he shoves his bagged snack at Clint.

“I told you, I don’t need—”

“It’s what friends do.” Dick says it firmly, with challenge in his voice.

Clint just stares at him, so Dick shakes the bag in his hand imperiously. He can read his friend’s reluctance so he feels smugly pleased when Clint finally reaches in the bag and grabs one of the celery stalks with peanut butter stuffed in the crevice.

Clint looks down at the snack in his hand for a long moment before mumbling, “Thanks,” and taking a bite.

A couple of hours later, Dick stops Clint with a hand to the arm after Miss Temple dismisses them for the day. “Come to our place for dinner.” When Clint seems to be trying to find a reason not to, Dick adds, “Please? This math is killing me. After dinner you could help me with it.” That may not be technically true. The module they’re working on right now is pretty simple, but Dick figures the white lie is okay if it will convince his friend to come.

Clint searches his face for a moment before relenting. “Okay.”

When Clint shows up at the Grayson’s trailer, Dick’s mom hands him a plate and tells him to take as much as he wants. He politely thanks her but only takes small amounts of everything, mumbling that he’s not very hungry.

He eats slowly and carefully, his eyes sharp and cautious. When Dick’s mom tries to push seconds on him, Clint politely declines, telling her he’s full, which Dick doesn’t understand, because he knows Clint hasn’t had a real meal for days and he only ate about half as much as Dick did. His mom gives his dad a ‘look’ over Clint’s head, but she doesn’t say anything.

After dinner, Clint quickly clears his plate and offers to wash the dishes. Dick opens his mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to, but his father catches his eye and gives a small shake of his head, just as his mom says, “Well, thank you, Clint. That would be very helpful.”

“Your parents are really nice,” Clint says later that evening as they’re doing homework at the table. Dick’s parents have gone to another camp to visit with friends.

Dick looks up from the math problems he’s been breezing through. “Uh, sure, I guess.” He shrugs. “I mean, aren’t all parents?” He taps the eraser end of his pencil lightly on the table.

Clint looks at him blankly. “No.”

“Oh.” Dick fidgets on the bench. He doesn’t know what to say, or what Clint’s point is, so he just goes back to his math. After a moment, Clint does, too.

* * *

Dick had told his parents about his new friend, but after Clint comes to dinner that first time and they finally meet him, they sit Dick down and ask him some questions. Dick can tell that there’s some unspoken communication going on between his parents during the conversation, but he has no idea what it’s about. He tells them what Clint has told him about his life, and when he’s done, his father says, “Dick, you tell Clint that he’s welcome at our dinner table any time he wants to come.”

Barney’s still in jail the next day so Dick makes sure Clint comes to dinner again. This time, Dick’s mom doesn’t give him the chance to take too little and serves him his food instead. She doesn’t pile it on like Dick would have expected, or how he would if it were him, instead she just adds a little more than the scrawny boy would have taken for himself. She still always asks if he wants seconds; he always declines. It’s not until maybe the tenth time he’s at their dinner table with them that Clint hesitantly agrees to taking seconds, but still only a small amount.

It feels a little like taming the wilder animals in their menagerie with tasty treats to get them to perform. But Clint’s not an animal and Dick doesn’t get why he’s so hesitant when he’s clearly hungry. Plus, there’s plenty of food, and his parents keep telling him he’s welcome to have more. Dick doesn’t fully understand his own sense of relief every time his friend is sitting at their dinner table, which eventually becomes every couple of days. It’s annoying though, that Clint always insists on clearing the table and washing the dishes in return, because it means Dick has to help since it would be weird for his friend to be working in Dick’s family’s kitchen while Dick just sits and watches.

* * *

Dick actually meets Barney – sort of, he sees him up-close, anyway - around mid-February when he and Clint are sucking on sodas and lurking around the tents, hoping the Varelli triplets will show up to practice their aerial routine. They’re both a little mesmerized by the older girls, who are pretty, but also fascinating in their identicalness. They like to try to figure out which is which. Not that either of them is brave enough to ask, so they never really know if they’re right or not. 

Angry words slice through the air behind them. “Where the hell have you been, you little brat?”

When Dick looks, Barney has Clint’s arm in a vice-grip and he’s clearly pissed. “Ow! Barney, stop! It hurts!”

Barney releases Clint but then gives him a small but firm shove in the chest. “Where the hell were you last night?“

“I fell asleep at Dick’s. Whadda you care?”

It happens now and then. Clint stays for dinner, they do homework, then sometimes hang out on Dick’s bunk, playing cards or reading comics. Sometimes it gets late and Clint falls asleep there. It never seemed to matter; there was no one waiting at ‘home’ for Clint except Barney, and according to his friend, Barney spends more nights in the bed of one girl or another than in the bunk house trailer.

Barney turns slightly to throw a narrow-eyed glare at Dick, who does his best to subtly puff up his chest and stand as tall as he can. Clint shifts and moves between them. “What do you want, Barney?”

Barney’s focus turns back to Clint. “Trick Shot is asking around for help painting his trailer and we’re gonna do it.”

“That guy’s a jerk,” Cling mumbles, half under his breath. “You go help him if you want. I’m not interested.”

The grip on Clint’s arm is back and Dick sees his friend wince as strong fingers dig into muscle. “Shut your hole, you little shit. He’s my ticket to roustabout next season, and if I do a good job with that, he might apprentice me for his show, so you sure as hell are gonna get your ass over to Trick’s trailer to help.”

“Ow. _Fine!_” He tries to rip his arm away, but Barney’s grip is too tight. “Jeez Barney, let go! I’ll come help.”

Barney glares at his brother for a couple more seconds before releasing him. “Be there in ten minutes,” he says, before stalking away, never sparing Dick another glance.

Dick stares after the older Barton. “He’s a bully.”

Clint sighs. “He’s my brother.” It’s all he has to say on the matter. “Maybe I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Come for dinner,” Dick calls after him. He watches until his friend disappears in the maze of tents and trailers, thinks, if that’s what having a brother is like, he’s just as glad he’s an only child.

* * *

Dick turns 12 himself on the first day of spring. As usual, his mom made his favorite coconut cake, but Dick finds himself cringing when she brings it out to the table where Clint is eating with them. ‘Happy Birthday, Robin’, the cake says, like it does every year, but this is the first time he’s kind of wished it didn’t. It’s embarrassing.

Not surprisingly, Clint asks, “Who’s Robin?”

Dick grumbles under his breath as his mom tells Clint, “Dick was born on the first day of spring, the time of year when the robins come out, so it’s always been my nickname for him.”

Dick’s face heats up. He’s too old for that baby nickname; he braces himself for the inevitable teasing.

Clint blinks at Dick’s mom, then glances at Dick for a second before looking back at the cake. He gives a small nod. “That’s nice,” he says quietly.

Dick’s mom reaches over and ruffles his black locks. “Happy birthday, Sweetie,” she says, then bends close and kisses his cheek.

Clint watches the exchange closely, his sharp eyes taking it all in. But Dick can’t help notice that his face is carefully blanked.

_‘Your parents are really nice.’ _Dick recalls Clint’s words from a few months ago. They are. They really are, and it occurs to him for the first time in his adolescence how truly fortunate he is. Instead of brushing his mom off impatiently, he smiles at her and says, “Thanks.”

After cake, they spend the evening sprawled on Dick’s bed, reading the new Captain America comics his parents had given him. Dick’s got a pretty good comic book collection going, and the two of them pass new and old ones back and forth, stopping now and then to discuss plot points or show something to the other. It’s comfortable, and Dick thinks that this is what it could be like to have a brother, if your brother was your best friend, too, and not a jerk like Barney.

* * *

For six months, Dick and Clint run and tumble and laugh and joke around. By the time they part ways on April 1st, Clint is a lot less scrawny and Dick has been seeing his smile a lot more often. Clint can also walk a few feet of the high line blindfolded (well, not the highline, per se, since they’ve strung his practice line a foot off the ground), and is starting to get the hang of some of the easier tricks in Dick’s acrobatic repertoire.

Most springs, Dick’s got itchy feet and can’t wait to break camp and get back on the road. This year, as he waves after Carson’s caravan, Dick can’t wait to come back to winter quarters next fall.


	2. 12/13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, I'm totally shocked at how many people have actually clicked into this fic. Thank you all for checking out this rarepair!

The winter that Dick is 12 and Clint is 13, Carson’s is slow getting to winter quarters. It’s not unusual; troupes can be delayed for any number of reasons, and they generally trickle into winter quarters over the course of a few weeks. But sometimes a circus will decide to winter troupe and not come to Florida at all. Dick prays that Carson’s hasn’t done that because the last six months, without Clint around, have felt somehow hollow. There have always been a handful of other kids in the troupe and more at winter quarters, but from the beginning, it was different with Clint in a way Dick can’t define. The waiting is killing him and not even the distraction of school or flying on the trapeze are enough to tamp down Dick’s growing impatience. His wild swings between excitement and worry have him bouncing around their camp and driving his parents crazy.

Finally, late one evening, a full two-and-a-half weeks after Haly’s arrived, a visitor to their camp mentions that the Carson troupe has rolled in. Dick can hardly sleep that night in anticipation of seeing his friend.

But Clint still doesn’t show up at class the next morning, and Dick starts to worry that he and Barney have left Carson’s. Dick knows being a back-yard boy is hard work for little pay, and they often go unappreciated by the performers. His parents always taught him to be kind and respectful to those behind the scenes, but Dick’s noticed that few others are. A lot of back-yard boys get fed up with the hard work for little pay and leave, and if that’s the case with Clint and Barney, it’s unlikely Dick will ever see his friend again.

He barely hears a word Miss Temple says all morning. When they have their morning break, he half-heartedly plays a game of dodgeball with his other friends, always with one eye scanning the park for a familiar blond head. He never sees it though, and by the time they are dismissed at noon, Dick is nauseous with how dejected he feels.

When he walks outside, he feels something tap him in the middle of his forehead. He swipes at the spot instinctively; Florida is rife with disgustingly large bugs of all kinds. A second later, he feels it again, and this time catches sight of what hit him as it falls to the ground. He squats down and picks up two pea-sized balls of paper. He’s studying them in his palm when a third one hits him in the same place and then drops into his hand. Dick looks up sharply and sees Clint sitting in his perch at the top of their tree, watching him with a neutral expression. Dick grins and quickly scrambles up to join his friend.

When he gets to the top and settles onto his branch, Clint is wearing the same closed-off expression he’d worn those first few weeks after Dick met him the year before.

“Why weren’t you at class?” Dick asks, even as his relief at seeing Clint again is settling in.

“Got to bed late after making camp. Thought Miss Temple would get mad if I interrupted.”

“Pssht,“ Dick dismisses. “You know you’re her favorite.”

Clint doesn’t answer, just shrugs.

“I heard you got in last night and when you weren’t here today, I was afraid you’d left Carson’s. I’ve been waiting for you for weeks!”

“Yeah?” Clint says with a tentativeness to his voice, like he’s not sure he believes it.

“Of course! I missed you.”

Clint finally smiles. “I missed you, too.”

Dick grins in return. “So, how did your summer go?”

“Okay. I’m still a back-yard boy, but Barney’s moved up to roustabout, so that’s good. How was yours?”

“Great! We worked up some new tricks – some of them I’m the lead!”

Clint’s eyes come alive. “Show me?”

“Of course!”

Past the awkward reunion, Clint loses his reserve and things settle back into the cadence of the previous winter. They chatter about their summers and the places they visited. Once again, Carson’s mostly played in the Midwest; Haly’s played the Atlantic Seaboard. They talk excitedly and compare notes for about a half hour until Clint sighs. “I better go. I still have work to do.”

“Okay,” Dick says, not without some disappointment, but understanding just the same. If he doesn't get back soon, he'll be late for practice himself. “Hey, come by tonight for dinner. My mom and dad will want to see you.”

Clint hesitates for just the barest second (Dick notices it just the same) before he smiles and says, “Sure. See you later.”

They scramble down the tree, and as Clint’s leaving, Dick stops him, “Oh, wait, Clint…”

“Yeah?”

“One of the Russian acrobats in our human pyramid was deported.”

“Uh, really?” Clint says, sounding sort of confused. 

“Yeah, now we don't have Oleg to stand on.” Dick grins.

Clint rolls his eyes and starts to walk away. “I didn’t miss your jokes, Grayson!” he says without turning back.

“You know you did!” Dick calls after him, then starts to trot home, excited to tell his parents to expect Clint for dinner.

* * *

When Clint arrives at the Grayson camp, he answers Dick’s father’s questions about his summer, while Dick’s mom fawns over him for a few minutes, going on about how much Clint’s changed. Clint ducks his head and blushes. Clint’s still just a boy, but he does look different - in a good way. He looks healthier than he did last winter: he’s grown a few more inches so he’s taller than Dick now - and he’s filled out a little, too, with new muscles from hard work. His face isn’t so thin. The back-yard boys may work for little more than room and board, but if Barney’s a roustabout now, he’s pocketing some actual pay. It looks like maybe that’s helped Clint some.

Dick’s pretty sure he and his parents are all kind of holding their breath to see what Clint does when his mom hands Clint a plate. When he hesitates, Dick steps up and serves himself. Clint watches closely and then takes exactly the same amount as Dick does. He’s older and bigger than Dick, so he could probably easily eat more, but it’s an improvement on the previous winter, so Dick feels satisfied. Still, he decides that from now on, maybe he’ll take a little more than he usually would if Clint’s with them for dinner.

Their days fall into an easy and carefree pattern. They go to school in the morning, and in the afternoon, Clint goes back to Carson’s to work and Dick and his parents practice for a couple of hours. They both escape as soon as they are able so they can get back to having fun. They get into a little mischief, sneaking around the various camps and spying on people, playing practical jokes and laughing until their sides hurt. Sometimes they hitch a ride into town where Dick uses his allowance money to get them into a movie, or buy them ice cream or candy at the sweet shop. Some weekends, they gather up the other kids from school and continue the endless games of football that they play during recess on school days. On lazy days, they climb a tree and idle away the hours, talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes Dick will happily sling an arm around Clint’s shoulders while they walk, or Clint will bend his elbow around Dick’s neck and wrestle him to ground when he is (wrongly) of the opinion that one of Dick’s jokes is particularly bad. Dick’s never really had a best friend before but he guesses this is what it’s like.

Dick continues to tutor Clint in tumbling and acrobatics. After a couple weeks of practice, Clint insists he’s ready for the actual high wire, rather than a line strung a foot off the ground. The first time, he makes it about a third of the way across before he tilts, windmills his arms desperately, then falls safely into the net below. Dick howls in laughter from the platform above. Clint makes a frustrated face and scrambles back up the ladder to the top. He falls eight more times before he makes it all the way across. Dick beams. 

Once again, Clint is a regular fixture at the Grayson dinner table and Dick couldn’t be happier; it’s always more fun if Clint is around. This year, in addition to continuing to insist that he clean up after dinner, if Clint arrives when Dick’s mom is still cooking, he jumps in to help her. He chops and stirs and fries things, asking her questions and listening carefully as she instructs him or tells him about the food and where she got the recipe. Dick thinks he understands: Clint doesn’t have a mom, so Dick’s happy to share his with his friend. He’s not particularly interested in cooking, though, so when Clint starts to mess around in the kitchen, Dick usually settles into the hammock or his bunk and reads. And if Clint starts to come early nearly every time he’s eating with them, that’s okay with Dick.

* * *

One warm evening in late November, while the dinner soup is simmering on the stove, Dick’s lazing in the hammock while Clint juggles four colored balls nearby. It’s a skill he learned the previous summer from one of Carson’s clowns. As he juggles, he wanders the yard aimlessly, somehow not tripping over anything. Every third cycle, when the yellow ball hits his left hand, he flicks it against whatever hard surface is nearby and then snatches it with his right hand on the rebound, integrating it smoothly back into the flow of the balls.

“How do you do that?” Dick asks, distracted from his book.

“I’ve been practicing,” Clint answers, tossing the yellow ball against the side of their trailer and then catching it again. “I was thinking that if I can get good enough, maybe Mr. Carson will let me be a joey* instead of a back-yard boy.”

“I mean how do you do that with the yellow one? Every time you throw it, it comes back to you perfectly.”

“It’s just angles. You know, like the math we’re learning.” Clint’s looking at Dick as he says it, even as he tosses the yellow ball and catches it.

They’re learning geometry this year, and it’s something that both boys find pretty easy. In class, sometimes, in his mind’s eye, Dick can see his family’s trapeze routines in the number and formulas. He doesn't think he could do what Clint’s doing, though. A small movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention and he realizes that both of his parents are staring at his friend as well. They look surprised and impressed; it makes Dick proud, somehow, and he smiles to himself. Clint juggles on, throwing the yellow ball and always catching it perfectly on the rebound, completely unaware of his audience. An idea begins to form in the back of Dick’s mind.

* * *

Every two weeks, there’s a ‘Circus Council’ – a kind of government set up by the troupes to police themselves so that the local authorities don’t get called in. That’s not good for anyone. One person from each circus sits on the Council. Dick’s mother was on it three years ago; his dad, last year. They hear disputes and grievances, make rules, lay down their own sanctions for troublemakers, etc. It’s as much a social event as a governmental meeting and a lot of the carnies go for its entertainment value alone. They meet at the 'school', opening all the wooden shutters so that the overflowing crowd can all see and hear. On those nights, it’s usually pretty easy to find some of the Big Tops completely empty for a couple hours. Dick waits until one of those nights – the first Tuesday in December - before dragging Clint from tent to tent until they find one empty.

“What are we doing?” Clint gasps, laughing as they’re chased away from one of the tents after startling a tiger from Beezus.

Dick bends over to catch his breath. "You know that trick you did that first day you were back?” he asks, pulling Clint along toward the next tent.

Clint furrows his brow. “What trick?”

“The one with the spit-balls.”

“That wasn’t a trick. I just flicked some spit-balls at you.”

“Well, yeah, I know, but you hit me. Three times in the exact same spot. And then you dropped the last one right into my hand.”

Clint shrugs. “So?”

“And your juggling, when you bounce the ball of the wall...”

“What about it?” he asks guardedly. 

“Have you always had good aim like that?” Dick asks as he peers inside the next tent. It’s empty. He drags Clint inside.

Clint shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, I guess I’m pretty good at hitting things if I try.”

Dick opens his coat and pulls a throwing knife from an inside pocket. “Have you ever tried one of these?”

Clint’s eyes are wide as he looks from Dick to the knife and back. “No. I’ve seen the Swordsman use them, though. Where did you get it?”

“Our knife thrower tossed it last summer, and I dug it out of the trash. Do _not_ tell my parents. They’d kill me if they knew I had it.” 

It’s not a great knife; the handle is cracked, which is probably why it was thrown away. Even Dick can tell that that’s affecting the balance. He messed around with it a little when he first got ahold of it. He’s fair at throwing, but wildly inconsistent, so he lost interest quickly. He’d mostly forgotten about it until he was watching Clint juggle.

He hands the knife to Clint. “Give it a try,” he says, pointing at the target-ring mounted on the wooden throwing wall in one corner of the tent – out of the way of the heavy-use areas.

Clint takes the knife, turns it over, passes it back and forth between his two hands to get a feel for it. After a minute of that he stands straight and sets his feet and squares his shoulders. The knife is handle-heavy so Clint grips the blade carefully between his fingers, cocks his elbow half-way back and flings the knife.

It hits an inch from dead-center.

Dick whoops loudly and Clint looks shocked.

Dick runs to retrieve the knife. “Try it again,” he says excitedly. “This time from farther away.” He hands the blade over as he gently pushes Clint backward.

Clint takes several steps back so that the target is about twenty feet away now. He sets himself, then raises his arm, not bending his elbow nearly as much this time. A second later, he releases the knife. It sinks into the material with a soft _chook, _and Dick cheers again when he sees that it missed the mark by only about three inches.

Clint seems dazed as he stares at where the knife landed.

“That was amazing!” Dick exclaims. “I _knew _it!”

“Knew what?”

“I knew you would hit the target! You’ve got almost perfect aim.”

Clint scoffs. “Beginners luck,” he says, but it’s clear to Dick that he’s wondering if that’s true.

Dick retrieves the knife and hands it over again. “Come on, try it again.”

This time it hits closer to the middle of the bullseye. Dick turns a triumphant grin on Clint. “I told you!” he says, while enthusiastically patting Clint on the back. Clint finally grins back at him.

They spend about a half-hour with Clint throwing the knife from various spots and Dick playing gopher to retrieve it. Clint hits the target every time, and although where he hits is fairly erratic, it’s never more than a few inches from the inner circle. They only stop because Circus Council must be over and others enter the tent. They slip away before they’re spotted, not wanting anyone to report to Dick’s parents that they were throwing knives.

After that, they don’t go to the Big Top as often. Dick still goes to practice with his parents in the afternoons, but when he and Clint have time to steal away, they usually head to the wilds of the orange groves to work on Clint’s knife-throwing skills. Eventually they sneak a target away from one of the tents and stash it in a picked-over tree. Dick doesn’t mind running back and forth to return the knife for Clint to throw again; if Clint can get more consistent, he might be able to move into a small part of the act, rather than staying a back-yard boy for another year. If he did that, he’d be able to earn his own money. The idea of that sits well with Dick. 

* * *

The Saturday before Christmas, Dick and Clint are sitting at the Grayson table decorating cookies with colored frosting. Earlier, Dick had lain in his bunk reading comics while Clint helped his mom carefully roll out cookie dough and cut it with special cookie-cutters that Haly’s metal smith made for her in the shape of an elephant, a clown, a Big Top, and a tiger.

“When did you stop believing in Santa?” Dick asks Clint idly while he’s chomping away at a cookie that was ‘accidentally’ broken. “I figured it out when I was nine and I saw my dad sneaking around with some wrapped boxes on Christmas Eve.”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Clint answers distractedly. He’s concentrating hard on the Big Top cookie he’s decorating. “I don’t remember ever really believing in him.”

“What? Not even when you were little?”

Clint is carefully placing edible silver balls one-by-one along the edge of the cookie. “My dad always told us there was no such thing as Santa. I think so we wouldn’t be disappointed when we didn’t get presents on Christmas like other kids did.”

Dick gapes at Clint for a second. Next to him, his mom has gone still where she’s been mixing the peanut butter into the new batch of cookie dough. “You didn’t get any Christmas presents?” Dick asks, his voice incredulous. He looks up to see his mom give him a sharp look and a single shake of her head.

Clint shakes his head and picks up the small bottle of red sugar sprinkles, lightly tapping the neck to direct where they land. “No. One year one of our foster moms wrapped up a few old toys that her kids had outgrown and gave them to us. But they were kinda junky, so…” He looks up then and sees Dick’s face, then glances at Dick’s mom. Clint snaps his mouth shut and his face turns red. He returns his focus to the cookie in front of him and doesn’t say anything else.

Dick’s trying to figure out what to say when his mom jumps in. “Do you have any favorite holiday foods, Clint?” She’s gone back to mixing the dough. Dick’s impressed with how light she’s able to make the words come out. Must be a grown-up skill.

Clint, who seems relieved to move past the topic of Christmas presents, chews on his lip and thinks for a second. “My mom made this special bread one Christmas. It was kind of sweet and had fruit and nuts in it.”

“Stollen?”

Clint’s face finally brightens. “Yeah, I think that’s what it was.”

His mom hums agreement. “We had some German performers in the troupe a while back and they would make it every year. It is delicious.”

Dick sticks his tongue out and makes a barfing noise ‘cause bread with fruit and nuts doesn’t sound very good to him.

“Richard Grayson, don’t be rude,” his mom says, but she’s got a twinkle in her eye so Dick knows she’s not really mad at him. “And Clint, this year you’ll have Christmas supper with us and you can share our traditions.”

“Thank you, Ma’am, but Barney—”

“Is welcome to join us as well, of course,” she says easily. 

They have a bit of a stand-off, with Clint watching his mom, and his mom giving an unwavering smile back. Dick’s come to recognize that expression of Clint’s as him wanting to do something, but not thinking he should and trying to figure out which to do. His mom’s smile he recognizes as the one that means Clint is going to do exactly as she says.

It’s Clint who blinks first, just like Dick knew he would. “Yes, Ma’am. I’ll talk to Barney.”

“Wonderful!”

Dick pops another cookie in his mouth and his mom gives him a scolding look. Dick grins in return, happy that Clint will be coming for Christmas, happy that his mom is able to so easily navigating the minefield of Clint’s life, and really happy to have dozens of cookies to eat in the coming days.

The next day, Dick asks to go along when his mom goes to town to run errands. While she goes into the grocery store, Dick peels off and darts into the hardware store that carries a lot of circus supplies during the winter months. He skirts around the aisles until he finds what he’s looking for, then checks to be sure no one he knows sees him before he takes his purchase to the check out. The clerk cocks an eyebrow at him. “They’re for my dad,” he lies. The clerk looks skeptical, but they both know that he’s not going to turn Dick’s business away. Dick hums ‘Good King Wenceslas’ as he leaves the store with his purchase tucked securely into the inside pocket of his coat. 

* * *

On Christmas day, Clint arrives without Barney, who is apparently having Christmas with some girl he met. Dick wonders, with some anger on Clint’s behalf, where that would have left his friend if he weren’t at the Grayson’s. Before they eat supper, Dick’s mom hands a wrapped box to Clint who takes it reluctantly and looks at Dick in virtual panic. Dick shrugs; he has no idea what’s in it. Clint carefully peels the paper off and when he opens the box, it reveals the dark blue sweater and matching hat he’s seen his mom knitting for the last month or so. She’s always knitting one thing or another; he didn’t know she was making them for Clint.

Clint's staring at the gift and gripping the soft material in one hand like he’s never going to let go of it, when he mumbles, “Thank you.” A second later his eyes lift uneasily to Dick’s parents. “I… I don’t have anything for you.”

“_Pfft_. Kids don’t have to get presents for grown-ups,” Dick helpfully supplies.

His dad smiles warmly. “Dick’s right. You never need to worry about getting us gifts, son.” 

Clint looks surprised that Dick's dad has called him that, but he does seem to relax a bit. When he stands and puts on the sweater, his eyes seem to shift and match the yarn color almost exactly. It’s weird.

Dick’s mom gets out of her chair and moves to help Clint shift the sweater around, tugging here and there. “I know it’s a little big for you. The way you keep shooting up, I wanted you to have some room to grow in it.” She puts her hands on his shoulders and admires him for a moment. “Merry Christmas, Clint,” she says, before she gives him a kiss on the cheek and then both Dick's parents leave the boys and head to the kitchen.

Clint blushes furiously and Dick snickers behind his hand.

After they eat their Christmas dinner, Dick’s mom brings out a plate of the cookies they’d made the week before, and a Stollen that she made especially for Clint. His eyes light up when he sees it.

“I hope it’s okay. I’ve never made Stollen before, so I don’t know if I got it right.”

“It looks just how I remember,” Clint says with an irrepressible smile.

Dick tries the Stollen and has to admit it’s not half bad, but he still prefers the cookies. Clint really loves it though. His mom wraps up what’s left of it for Clint to take with him, along with other leftovers.

After they clean up the kitchen, Dick drags Clint off to the Big Tops and they easily find an empty one. Once there, he takes the wrapped present from his inside coat pocket and hands it to Clint. “Merry Christmas.”

Clint grins and digs in his coat pocket to get a small packet wrapped in newspaper; he hands it to Dick. “Merry Christmas,” he says in return.

“You first,” Dick says, bursting with excited anticipation of seeing Clint open it.

Clint tears into the paper and his hands freeze when he sees what’s inside, and then a huge smile breaks on his face as he looks at the set of three throwing knives.

“They’re not the best,” Dick acknowledges. “But they’re better than the one you have, and at least you won’t have to go retrieve it every time you throw.”

“Are you kidding? They’re great! _Thank_ you!” A second later he looks up from his gift. “Now you,” he says, gesturing to the present in Dick’s hand.

Dick rips the paper away to reveal a small carved figure of an aerialist on a trapeze. It’s slightly crude – but only slightly – and delicate. It’s obvious that a lot of time went into it. “This is awesome, Clint! Did you carve it?”

Clint nods, looking bashful. “One of our roustabouts has been teaching me. He helped with some of the more detailed parts.”

“It’s really cool. I’ll hang it above my bed,” he says, tucking it carefully into his pocket. “Come on, let’s go try out your new knives.”

* * *

The second half of the winter season goes about the same as the first. It's carefree, but there's also a buzz of excitement and anticipation humming underneath, as Dick helps Clint continue to work on his throwing skills. By the time winter quarters is coming to an end, Clint can hit the center ring pretty consistently. He can also make it successfully across the high-wire three times out of four, and has mastered some of Dick’s simpler aerial moves. They both agree that by the end of the next year, he might be ready to work without a net. In between, they find plenty of mischief to get up to. On Dick’s birthday, Dick sits at the table playing solitaire while Clint helps his mom make Dick’s coconut birthday cake. She mostly stands back to talk him through it and Clint beams when his mom praises him. It makes Dick smile, too. He’d have to be a blind man to miss Clint’s proud smile later, as he walks the cake – ablaze with 13 candles – over to the table while his parent’s sing. 

* * *

On March 31st, their last night at winter quarters, they stay up talking deep into the night in Dick’s bunk, neither one of them wanting to fall asleep and have their time together end that much sooner. They do eventually fall asleep though, Dick sprawled on his stomach and Clint curled on his side next to him, his breath puffing warm into Dick’s shoulder.

The next day, Clint helps Dick and his family break camp since Carson's isn't moving out for a couple more days. They're rolling up the hammock when Dick's dad comes through the yard. His dad smiles and gives a small nod. “Where are you all headed to, Clint?” he asks the boy.

“Um, I think Mr. Carson said we’re going up to Missouri, Sir.” His dad knew that already, Dick had told him. But his father’s always been good about talking to Clint like he isn’t just part of the background noise.

“This is a good time of year to be in Missouri,” his father acknowledges. “Dick, you’ve got an hour, then we’ve got to pull out.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says, and he and Clint dart toward the orange grove just over the rise. They’ve got a tree close to the Grayson trailer that they like to perch in; it’s taller than most and has sturdy branches up high where they can both sit comfortably. When they settle in, Dick digs in his front pocket and pulls out a half-dollar coin. “Here,” he says, handing it over to Clint. It’s Dick’s lucky coin; his dad gave it to him before he did his first solo performance. “Take it with you this year.”

Clint immediately pushes Dick’s hand back with a shake of his head. “No.”

“Clint, take it. Make sure you have it with you when you show Mr. Carson and the Swordsman what you can do with the knives.”

“Dick, I can’t. It’s your lucky coin. You need it.”

“I already have tons of luck,” Dick tells him. He doesn’t say it, but he’s thinking about how he has a mom and dad who love him, and a home, and plenty of food, and anything else he needs. He doesn’t really need any more ‘luck’ than that.

Clint takes the coin with obvious reluctance. “Thank you, Dick,” he says quietly a moment later. “I’ll take care of it, I swear. And I’ll bring it back to you next year.” His solemn eyes flick up to meet Dick’s. Up here in the tree, sitting amongst the leaves, his eyes look a startling shade of green.

“Deal,” Dick says with a smile, and then Clint smiles in return as he slips the coin in the front pocket of his jeans.

Too soon, Dick’s dad is calling for him. They make their way down the tree and slowly walk back to the Grayson camp where his parents are stowing the last of their gear. They part ways with a promise to see each other the following winter. As Clint leaves, Dick turns away to blink the dampness from his eyes.

Later, when Dick looks back on that year in winter quarters, he will remember it as the last idyll, when they were both just boys, kids, going to school, playing around, having fun. It’s the carefree winter that will firm up the foundation of their friendship, changing it from a single fleeting season of their youth, into something more, something strong enough to weather the coming storm. But when Dick says good-bye to Clint that spring, he has no idea how much things will change for his friend—for both of them—the next year.

*Joey = clown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is awesome and much appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	3. 13/14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah! I'm outright stunned at the number of reads this fic has gotten. Thanks so much to every one of you who gave this crazy fic a shot!

The winter that Dick is 13 and Clint is 14, it’s Haly’s that’s late getting to winter quarters. As they’re making camp early in the evening, Dick’s parents’ friend, Tom Mortimor from the Beezus outfit, stops by to welcome them back and say hello. Dick asks if he’s heard anything about the Carson troupe. Tom tells him that they’ve been in for a week or so, and they’re settled over by the fairgrounds. Practically before the words are out of Tom’s mouth, Dick is moving.

His dad grabs his collar. “Don’t even think about it,” he scolds.

“But, Dad…”

“I know you want to see Clint, and I understand, but you know we still have work to do here. It’ll keep until school tomorrow.”

Dick groans in frustration but does as he’s told.

* * *

The next morning, he runs all the way to the school, hoping to see Clint before class starts. When he gets there, he smiles to see Miss Temple is back again, but he doesn’t see Clint. He waits until a couple minutes after the bell rings before he slips into the building. He’s completely distracted as class starts, watching the door and hoping to see Clint materialize through it any second. He’s nearly given up hope of Clint’s arrival when his friend finally ducks in the room fifteen minutes after class starts. If Dick weren’t so well familiar with his friend’s face, he might not recognize him. Clint has gained a few inches in the last six months and his arms and legs are long and rangy compared to what they were when the two of them had parted last spring. His hair is shaggy and flopping in his face. He doesn’t see Dick at first, and Dick takes in the dark smudges under his eyes as he scans the room. He looks tired, but as soon as he sees Dick, his face lights up. Dick can’t contain his excitement and he waves enthusiastically.

Miss Temple gives them a half-hearted look of reproach as Clint slides onto the bench next to Dick. “Mr. Grayson and Mr. Barton, please refrain from disturbing the class.”

They smile at each other but then turn their attention to their teacher’s discussion of the literary themes of “The Last of the Mohicans”, which she informs them they will be reading this winter.

At the break, they by-pass the group of kids who are organizing a game of dodgeball and scale the tree in the park.

Dick’s about to burst by the time they get settled in. “How was your summer? How’d it go with Mr. Carson and the Swordsman?”

Clint laughs, digging into the front pocket of his jeans. “Well,” he flicks something to Dick with his thumb, “I guess I don’t need this anymore.”

Dick catches it and looks down at the familiar half-dollar in his hand. “Seriously?” He looks up at Clint with wide, excited eyes.

Clint nods happily. “Yeah. I had a part in the Swordsman’s show, but even better, I’m working with Trick Shot now, too. He’s training me with a bow.”

“Holy moley, Clint, that’s great!” Dick isn’t sure he’s ever seen Clint grin so broadly before. “Are you performing with the bow, too?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. Trick says if I work with him all winter and do what he tells me, then maybe by next season he’ll bring me along. Dick, shooting a bow is the most amazing thing. I feel like… like it’s a part of me, you know?”

Dick does know. Because Clint’s eyes are sparkling and his voice is almost reverent and he looks and sounds just like how Dick feels when he’s flying.

“If I can get a part in both shows, then I’ll finally be able to pull my own weight.”

Dick frowns at that. As far as he’s concerned, every back-yard boy pulls their own weight; the work is hard and demanding, and little appreciated. But working in two different acts would be even more demanding, requiring long hours of practice, especially if the performers are new. If Dick had another act to practice for besides the Flying Graysons, he’s not sure how he would manage it. “And they’re still letting you come to school?” Dick asks, wondering how Clint has the time.

Clint shifts on the branch and the smile on his face wavers a little. “Trick Shot works with me early in the morning, before school.”

After a beat, Dick says, “Really?”

There’s a hierarchy to who gets to use the practice tents and when. The big-name performers – the headliners – they get the prime practice times; two-hour slots from late morning to early evening. Each circus prioritizes who gets those slots based on their relative importance to the company. Dick and his family are well established and generate a lot of income for Haly’s, so they get a prime afternoon slot so Dick can still go to school. Minor acts, or new acts that are just being developed, get shoved off into less convenient times later in the evening. But Dick’s never heard of anyone practicing so early in the morning; circus folk aren’t exactly known to be morning people. When the kids come to school in winter quarters, they rarely see adults up and around, unless they’re part of the orange picking crews. It does explain why Clint’s face had looked so creased and tired when he’d come into school.

Clint nods and shifts again, his eyes darting away for a second and then back. “Yep. This way I can train with Trick in the morning and the Swordsman in the afternoon, and still have time to come to school. It’s perfect.” He smiles.

“Yeah,” Dick agrees, putting on the best smile he’s able, but something about it feels wrong.

They chatter away, catching each other up on the past season until Miss Temple calls the kids back to the classroom.

* * *

Clint comes for dinner that night and blushes a crimson red when Dick’s mom fusses over him – how grown-up and handsome he looks. A second later, his mom puts a wooden spoon in Clint’s hand and puts him to work. Suddenly any of the remaining awkwardness slides away and everything settles back into the same comfortable rhythms of the last two years.

But his mom’s comments have Dick turning a critical eye on his friend for the first time that day. As he sits at the table trying to read his history book while Clint and his mom cook dinner, his eyes keep returning to his friend. He’s seen how on other kids, a sudden growth spurt turns them clumsy and awkward. But Clint’s movements are fluid and graceful, and he can see in them the many hours that the two of them had practiced acrobatics the last two winters. His scrawny, half-starved self has transformed into raw-boned leanness and sinewy muscle. But it also strikes Dick for the first time that with his blond hair, fair skin with a few freckles sprinkled across his nose, and mercurial green-blue-grey eyes, Clint is, objectively, attractive. Dick feels his own face heat a little and, confused by the sudden thoughts, he swallows and turns his attention back to his book.

* * *

Clint’s training schedule means they don’t see each other as much as they had the two previous winters. He still comes to the Grayson’s frequently for dinner, and then the two of them work on their homework together, but more often than not, Clint’s yawning deeply by the time they finish, and instead of spending a couple more hours goofing off, he stumbles back home to bed. Dick misses the more regular time spent with Clint, but understands how important it is for his friend to succeed, so he pushes his disappointment away. They always have time on weekends, and on those days, they’ll often spend hours above the nets in the tents. Dick teaches him to fall from the perch or wire. To do it gracefully, to _think_ while he’s doing it, to not panic and concentrate on moving his body the way it needs to. To be safe. As in the previous years, Clint proves to be an excellent student, and he talks excitedly of someday being able to incorporate some aerial moves into a show with the knives or bow.

More disappointing than their abbreviated evenings, though, is the fact that every week or so, Clint doesn’t show up at school. Sometimes he’ll shuffle up to the Grayson camp in the late afternoon, asking about what he missed in class, but not always. Those are the worst; the days that Clint doesn’t show at all. Dick worries more and more that juggling two practices a day, plus school, is wearing his friend out.

Until mid-January, when Dick finds out that it’s not that at all. 

One Saturday morning they go to the tents, but finding them all occupied, they head for the groves instead. They’re aimlessly walking through a swath of already gleaned orange trees, alternately climbing trees and finding increasingly show-offy ways to get out of them. Clint’s happy, which is making Dick happy, and being Dick, he can’t resist turning to Clint and saying, “You know, I can always tell when another person is lying just by looking at them.”

Clint stops cold and blinks. “You can?”

Dick nods gravely. “Yeah, I can tell if they’re standing, too.”

“Goddammit, Grayson!” Clint growls at the terrible joke. He makes a grab toward Dick, who darts away, laughter in his wake. Clint chases after him, but Dick uses his more compact frame to dodge around the trees, staying just out of Clint’s reach for several moments. Eventually, though, Clint’s longer legs and deeper reach get the better of Dick, and he’s able to grab Dick’s shirt collar and drag him backward. Both boys tumble to the ground in a heap. It’s something they’ve done to each other dozens of times without any problems, but this time, when Dick accidently lands half on top of him, Clint arches his back and lets out a pained gasp.

Dick stops grappling instantly. “Are you okay?” he asks with alarm.

“I’m fine,” Clint says quickly, but the way his jaw is clenched clearly tells Dick he’s not.

They’re still trying to extract themselves from one another as Dick says, “No, you’re hurt. Is it your back? What happened?”

Clint tries to sit up. “Nothing. I’m fine.” He pushes Dick’s hands away.

“Stop,” Dick insists. “Let me check.” Clint is still twisting to get away as Dick gets a grip on his sweatshirt and pushes it up Clint’s back. Dick gasps in a startled breath at the lines of black and blue crisscrossing Clint’s torso.

Clint freezes for a couple of seconds, and then suddenly Dick is on his ass and Clint is stalking away from him.

Dick scrambles to his feet. “Hey! Clint, hey!” He catches up to his friend and grabs his arm, but Clint pulls away and keeps walking. “_Clint!_” Dick says more forcefully and his friend stops but doesn’t turn around. “What the hell happened?”

Clint spins and his eyes look stormy grey when he grits out, “Nothing. It’s fine. Just leave it.”

Dick stares at his friend. “How can you say it’s nothing? Who did that?”

Clint snorts.

“What?” Dick asks again, his mind racing and confused.

“Look, the whole world isn’t perfect like the Flying Grayson Family, okay?”

The words sting and Dick gapes at him, wide-eyed. “What does _that_ mean?”

He starts to walk away. “Leave it, Dick. Forget you ever saw anything.”

It's unlikely Dick will ever be able to forget the sight of his good friend’s back, striped black and blue the way it is. “Clint,” Dick says, grabbing at his arm again.

Clint rips his arm from Dick’s grip. “I said _leave_ it!” he yells, and shoves Dick so hard that he stumbles and lands hard on his back.

The breath is knocked completely out of him and he struggles to breathe as he lies in the grass. It’s a bit of an occupational hazard and there are tricks to getting your breath back. He rolls to sit up, then as he gets to his knees, he hears Clint’s muttered “shit”. Dick closes his eyes and concentrates on relaxing until his diaphragm stops spasming. A moment later, as he manages to get a lungful of air, he looks up at his friend.

Clint is standing a few feet away, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, and when he takes them away, he looks horrified and guilty. He takes a step toward Dick, then stops and steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s standing with his fists balled at his side, taking deep gulping breaths. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I shouldn’t have done that. I… I don’t ever want to hurt you, but… you need to just leave it.” Clint’s eyes are glistening as he turns and leaves Dick sitting on the ground.

Dick slowly gets to his feet, then bends over with his hands on his knees to take a couple more deep breaths. He’s a little achy but not hurt. Physically, anyway. He watches a moment to see if Clint comes back, but he disappears through the grove without a backward glance. Dick turns and walks in the opposite direction. His thoughts are muddled. He’s angry at Clint for knocking him down and storming off, and he’s shocked at what he saw and doesn’t understand Clint’s reaction. It doesn’t make sense to him that Clint wouldn’t tell anyone. He thinks about going to his parents, but something in Clint’s dark desperation keeps him from doing that.

Instead of going home, he peels off to the tents and is relieved to find an empty net this time. He spends the next couple of hours pushing himself through his hardest maneuvers, finding comfort in the repetition and the burn of his muscles. But his mind is elsewhere and he as he flies and flips, he finds himself falling into the nets more than he should.

“Grayson!” someone yells at him after the seventh or eighth time he’s fallen.

He rolls gracefully from the net and lands lightly on his feet. “Yeah?” He can see now that it was Clarissa Miller, Mr. Haly’s sister, who had called him out.

She narrows her eyes at him. “If you’re head’s not in the game, you know you shouldn’t be here doing that,” she says sharply. “Git outta here before I tell the boss.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he mumbles and leaves the tent, because Clarissa is no one to be messed with and the last thing he needs is for it to get back to his parents that he was being reckless on the trapeze.

* * *

Clint doesn’t show up at school the next week, and Miss Temple casts questioning looks his way, but Dick ignores them. He can be as stubborn as the worst of them, and it takes days for his anger to dissipate enough that he starts piecing things together. When the full picture finally comes to him, his anger seems unimportant and he goes looking for Clint. He checks all the tents and is wandering around the Carson encampment when he spots Barney loading tent rigging into the back of a truck. The two of them haven’t interacted much, and what Dick’s seen of him, he hasn’t particularly liked. But finding Clint is more important than avoiding Barney, so Dick stalks over to him.

“Where’s Clint?” he demands to know.

Barney barely gives him a glance. “The fuck should I know? I ain’t his keeper.” He grabs a nearby crate and tosses it in the back of the truck with the rigging.

“No, you’re his brother.”

Barney ignores him and reaches for another crate.

Anger rising, Dick steps in front of Barney. “Do you know what Trick Shot is doing to him?”

“Sure. He’s turning him into some fucking prima donna.” There is obvious bitterness behind the words as he steps around Dick and loads the crate.

“He’s hurting him,” Dick grits out.

Barney finally turns and looks fully at Dick. “You here to rescue him? You and your prissy family gonna swoop in and save the day again?”

Dick narrows his eyes at Barney. “Well if his own brother doesn’t care enough, someone has to.”

Before he can blink an eye, Barney is on him, slamming him into the side of the truck. “Fuck you, you little shit,” Barney snarls. “Get the fuck outta here before I pound you into the dirt.”

Without thinking, Dick lashes out, fist connecting with Barney’s face so that he falls backward onto the ground. The look of surprise on the older Barton’s face probably mirrors the one on Dick’s own. But Barney’s face quickly twists into a mask of ugly hatred and he jumps up and lunges for Dick. Dick may be reckless and impulsive sometimes, but he’s not stupid enough to stick around; Barney Barton has four years, about 8 inches, and probably 40 pounds on him. Besides that, he’s well known around winter quarters as a fighter, and a good one. Dick knows he’d stand no chance, and probably for the first time in his life, he wishes he knew how to fight. Since he doesn’t, he does the smart thing and bolts. Barney’s threats follow after him as he makes himself scarce.

He makes another circuit through the tents and eventually finds Clint in the target practice area of the second-to-last tent.

The first time Dick had seen Clint with a bow, his jaw about dropped. Clint had been very good with knives by the time they parted last spring, but he’s unbelievably good with a bow. Since then, he’s spent a lot of time watching Clint practice. His fluid and natural movements with a bow have a way of mesmerizing Dick. He watches now, not wanting to interrupt, but mostly just entranced by the show, as always. He can tell that Clint knows he’s there, but he doesn’t stop or acknowledge Dick until he’s emptied his entire quiver of arrows, all of them clustered in the center bullseye. Then he turns and crosses his arms.

“You want something, Grayson?” Clint asks. His asks, his voice flat and his eyes dull and expressionless. They look a colorless grey.

“Can we talk?”

“Go ahead. Talk.”

Dick opens his mouth just as voices ring loudly through the tent. Over his shoulder he sees his parents making their way to the nets. When they see Dick, they wave him over. “Dammit,” he mutters in frustration and turns back to Clint. “I have to go practice. Will you meet me in the tree later?”

Clint stares at him for a moment before shrugging. “Whatever,” he says, then turns and walks toward the targets to retrieve his arrows.

Dick watches him gather them all up and then, once again, walk away without looking back.

* * *

Clint’s already there and perched in the top branches when Dick arrives. Dick scales the tree, uncomfortably aware of Clint’s eyes tracking his ascent. He settles onto a branch next to his friend. Sitting there in the tree, with the leaves reflecting the light, Clint’s eyes have shifted to green again. 

“You haven’t been at school,” Dick starts.

Clint shrugs. “Been too busy.”

If Dick didn’t know Clint as well as he does, he might be convinced by his seeming indifference. But Dick knows better. Clint loves school and has always found time to go. He changes tack. “I’m not some dumb, naïve kid.”

Clint picks at the bark of the branch he’s sitting on. “Yeah?”

Dick takes a quiet breath and steels himself, not sure how Clint is going to react to what he says next. “It’s Trick Shot, isn’t it?”

Clint’s eyes snap to Dick’s, and Dick sees Clint’s face flush rapidly before he firms his mouth and looks away.

“It seemed kinda weird to me that he wants you to practice early in the morning. But it’s so no one else will be at the tents and see what he’s doing, isn’t it?”

Staring off into the distance, Clint says, “You’re too damn smart for your own good.” It looks to Dick like he tries to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace.

“Clint, you should tell someone—”

Clint turns his gaze back to Dick. “Yeah? Who should I tell?”

“I don’t know. The police?”

Clint scoffs. “I can deal with it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Clint closes his eyes for a moment. “Yeah, well, life ain’t always fair, Grayson.”

Dick pushes a frustrated breath through his nose and thinks for a moment. “I can tell my parents, they’ll know what to do—"

“_No!_ You can’t tell them. You can’t tell anyone!" Before Dick can answer, he adds, "“Why do you even care?”

Dick’s jaw drops open. “What… whaddaya mean, why do I care?”

“No one else does, so why do you?” His eyes are searching Dick’s face intently.

“Because you’re my friend and I don’t want people to hurt you.”

Clint snorts. “You _are_ naïve, Grayson.”

“Stop calling me that!” Dick snaps, his temper flaring. “You never call me Grayson, so why are you now?”

Clint firms his mouth but doesn’t say anything.

Dick shifts on his branch, squaring himself more to his friend. “Clint. Please. I don’t understand. If Trick Shot is hurting you, why don’t you tell someone?”

“What happens if I do? Huh? I’ll tell you what. Even if Trick gets in trouble, no one likes a snitch and Carson will boot me. And then what? I’m 14 years old; I’ll get thrown back into the system. Barney and I came here to get away from that!”

It turns Dick's stomach to think about him leaving, but even so, thinking about his friend being hurt, makes him even more sick. “It’s gotta be better than this,” he says quietly, gesturing toward what he knows are probably still-visible marks on Clint's back.

Clint smiles, but it's all teeth and bitterness. “I had one foster who punched me in the face so hard that Barney thought he probably gave me a concussion and broke this bone.” He taps his finger to his cheek. “But they wouldn’t take me to the doctor, so we never knew for sure. One foster mom wouldn’t feed Barney and me, so all we ever got was free lunch at school. And this—” Clint pushes his jeans down a little to expose his right hipbone, where Dick sees a messy cluster of four circular scars. “These are from one of my foster brothers who didn’t appreciate having to share his bedroom with ‘trash’. The system sucks, Dick. At least here I know what’s coming and how to avoid it. And at least here I have y— things to look forward to.” 

Dick’s head is practically spinning with Clint’s revelations, can’t understand how people who should be taking care of Clint could do those things to him. Dick had thought he understood what Clint had been through in his life. But he’s just realizing that he had no idea just how bad things were for him. He’s every bit the naïve boy that he denied being. Guilt crashes over him for having so much when his friend has so little. He doesn’t know what to say. “Clint…”

Clint leans forward a little. “I can handle a few bruises, it’s not a big deal. I’m good at this, Dick,” he says earnestly. “I could be really good someday. Please, just… leave it. I’ll be okay.”

Dick is quiet for several long minutes, confusion warring in him as he turns everything over in his head. “Does it happen a lot?” he finally asks.

Clint tugs a leaf from the tree and stares at it as he shreds it, the pieces fluttering away on the wind. “Only when I screw up. He’s just trying to make me better.”

Emotions roil in him again. “Clint, it’s not right.”

“Doesn’t matter. This is the best chance I’ve got to do something besides slop after animals for the rest of my life. You said it yourself, I’ve got great aim. Besides, I told you, I can handle it.”

Frustration and anger boil up in Dick again. “You shouldn’t _have_ to!” When Clint doesn’t say anything, Dick latches onto an idea. “Let me ask my dad to talk to Mr. Haly. Maybe you could come with us.”

Clint sighs. “I can’t leave Barney.”

“Why not?” Dick snaps. “What’s he ever done for you except leave you to starve a couple of years ago?”

“That wasn’t his fault!” Clint says fiercely. “He’s taken care of me since I was puny. Took hits for me my whole life – more than he should have!”

“Yeah? Does he know what Trick Shot is doing?” Clint goes silent and looks away. “He does, doesn’t he?” Dick seeths. He wishes he’d stuck around and tried to get in a few more solid punches earlier.

“He’s the only family I have,” he says quietly.

“No, he’s not,” Dick answers without hesitation.

Clint answers with a sad smile. “You’re my friend, Dick. And I’m asking you as my friend. Please. I can finally be useful. I’ve never been useful before.”

“Don’t say that...”

“You don’t know what it’s like. Your parents are _nice_. They love you. Mine—” He stops, shakes his head a little. “I’ve always just been one more useless mouth to feed: to my dad, for all those fosters, at Carson’s. Hell, for _your_ parents. For the first time in my life, it’s like, I have a purpose. I can earn my way instead of just being a worthless burden.”

Dick studies Clint’s face for a long time, his stomach twisted in knots. He _doesn’t_ know what it’s like. His life has been idyllic, for the most part, and he’s always been loved and cared for and happy. Nobody’s ever told him he’s useless, or worthless, or trash. The thought that this is what people have said to Clint all his life makes Dick heartsick.

But Clint seems so sure that this is what he wants that eventually, despite his reluctance, Dick relents. “Alright, on one condition.”

“What?” Clint asks, clearly relieved, which is at sharp contrast with how Dick is feeling.

“When that happens, you tell me and let me make sure you’re okay.” If nothing else, he can always make sure someone is taking care of Clint.

Clint snorts. “I don’t need that. I can look out for myself.”

“Probably. But the thing is, you don’t have to.”

Clint stares at him for a long moment and Dick knows he’s fighting that internal battle. In the end, he gives Dick a small nod. “’kay.”

“You promise?” He’s relieved now, but it doesn’t really feel like a victory, all things considered.

“Yeah, yeah, I promise. Jeez, Dick, give it a rest.” He rolls his eyes but the tired smile on his face looks sincere.

They slowly climb down out of the tree, and when they get to the ground, Dick grabs Clint and pulls him into a hug.

“Oof. What—” Clint cuts off his own words, and after an awkward moment, Dick feels his arms wrap tentatively around Dick’s shoulders.

Dick squeezes his eyes shut to stop the press of tears, and grips his friend tighter.

* * *

That night, before he goes to bed, he seeks out his mom and gives her a hug, holding on long past when they would normally stop.

“Dick? Honey?” his mom says gently. “Are you alright?”

He nods into her shoulder.

She holds him for a minute longer then carefully disengages herself, leaving her hands lightly on his shoulders while she studies his face. “Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

Dick has to bite his tongue to keep himself from spilling everything about Clint. He’s never kept any real secrets from his parents – at least nothing this important – but he promised his friend, and so he lets the words die in his throat and instead says, “Just… thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being my mom.”

She studies him a few seconds longer before pulling him back into an embrace. It’s exactly what he needs, except that it’s also the last thing he needs, because he can’t help feeling guilty somehow that he has all of this, and Clint has nothing. Worse than nothing, he’s like, into negative numbers with his situation.

* * *

The whole episode changes the tenor of the winter. Suddenly, it feels to Dick like they’re not kids anymore, playing children’s games. Dick sees everything through a different lens; a more adult lens that’s not nearly so rose-colored. He watches Clint constantly, looking for signs that he’s hurt or in pain. On bad days, Clint scowls when he notices; on good days he just rolls his eyes. They still have some light moments, but everything is underscored by the knowledge that someone is hurting his friend and there’s nothing Dick can do about it. Instead, he puts his energy into making sure that the time they spend together is fun and free of conflict, so at least some of the time, Clint gets a break from the bad parts of his life.

Clint never misses class again, seeming to be determined to prove to Dick that he’s okay, but he does keep his promise and come to Dick a couple of times, stiff and holding himself more awkwardly than usual. He lets Dick pull up his shirt and look closely at the new bruises that he finds. It makes Dick sick, and there’s not much to be done for it, but somehow it makes him feel better, knowing that his friend is trusting him with it.

But one day in early March, when Clint hesitantly tugs up his shirt and Dick sees the vicious mess of new bruises on top of old bruises on his back, he’s furious. Clint tells him not to worry, that Trick is just stressed because they’re so close to moving out for the season and Clint needs to be ready. Dick doesn’t understand how Trick Shot thinks Clint will improve when he’s bruised all to hell and can’t move smoothly or fluidly. So Dick sets his alarm for early in the morning and starts going to the tent to watch Clint practice with Trick Shot. He doesn’t even try to be covert about it – he wants the bastard to know he’s being watched.

Trick Shot glares at him and Dick glares right back, but Clint never calls him out about it and he’s sure he sees a look of thinly veiled relief behind Clint’s mask of exasperation. For nearly a month, Dick is there every morning; losing a couple of hours sleep is not a difficult sacrifice for him to make sure Clint doesn’t suffer another whipping.

* * *

The last weekend before all the troupes move out, the weather finally clears after a couple weeks of rain and cold, and Dick and Clint are lying in a field, soaking up the sunshine. They’d bought an entire box of popsicles and had eaten them all. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Dick says, lying on his back, head resting on his hands.

“Mm hmm,” Clint answers, lazy and relaxed, his eyes closed and face pointed toward the sun.

“If you’re going to have a bigger part in the act, you’ll need a stage name.”

That’s apparently interesting enough that Clint opens his eyes and turns his head toward Dick. “I guess,” he says slowly, appearing to turn the idea over in his head.

“I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was thinking about that book we read in the beginning of the school year. 'The Last of the Mohicans'. You remember?”

It only takes a couple of seconds before Clint picks up on where Dick is going. "Hawkeye!" He grins and sits up in his excitement.

Dick follows suit, pretzeling his legs. “Exactly!”

Clint eyes dance with interest. “That… could be kinda cool.” His grin gets bigger for a second, but then turns into a more hesitant expression. “It’s not… You don’t think it would be too… Weird?”

“No, it’s perfect. He was known for his marksmanship! I’ve been watching you all winter and you’re the best I’ve ever seen!”

Clint preens a little at the praise.

“But if you don’t like it, you could always go with the character’s real name, Natty Bumppo, but that doesn’t sound nearly as cool.”

Clint throws his popsicle stick at Dick, hitting him exactly between the eyes. “Maybe that could be my alter ego,” he laughs.

Dick guffaws, but it sticks; much to Clint’s chagrin, Dick starts to sometimes call Clint, “Natty”. 

* * *

Dick knows the stakes are high for Clint in the coming season, so as they part ways, Dick gives his lucky coin back to Clint. He tries to protest – tells Dick that he needs it as much as Clint does – but Dick refuses to take it back. He’s watched a lot of up-and-coming acts get ground to dust in the machine of the traveling circus. Clint may be able to hit a target while practicing in an all but empty tent, but that doesn’t necessarily equate to being able to do it in front of an audience of hundreds of people. Even more so, he wants Clint to have every bit of extra help he can get to stop Trick Shot from hurting him during the summer season when Dick can’t be there to keep an eye on them. No, the coin needs to stay with Clint, and Dick doesn’t have a second of regret as he pushes it back into his friend’s hand. 

In retrospect, Dick will understand that that winter season was a turning point for the two of them. It was the year when Clint finally started to recognize his own value, and when Dick lost his innocence and began to see the world for the cruel place it could be. But it was also the year that they learned to trust each other, so that their youthful friendship shifted into something deeper, and more permanent. Into something that would withstand the coming storms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is super appreciated! :D


	4. 14/15

The winter that Dick is 14 and Clint is 15, Haly’s rolls in early on a Sunday evening. As eager as Dick is to go look for Clint, he knows better than to ask his dad if he can; there’s too much work that needs to be done to set up camp for six months. A couple hours in, though, he sees a familiar figure making his way into their camp.

“Clint!” Dick calls out excitedly and trots toward his friend, who is grinning broadly. When he reaches Clint, he stops, and they both shuffle their feet awkwardly for a few seconds. “Uh, hey, when did you get in?”

“Two days ago. When I heard Haly’s had come, I headed right over. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course! Come on, come say ‘hi’ to my mom and dad.” Dick grabs Clint’s wrist and drags him along.

His mom hugs Clint and fawns all over him as usual, and once again, Clint turns bashful.

“Ah, good, another set of hands,” his dad says amiably when he comes out of their trailer and sees them.

“Hello, Sir,” Clint says as he shakes his hand. “Just tell me how I can help.”

Dick cocks his head. He’d been too excited before to notice, but it’s clear now that Clint’s voice is pitched at least an octave lower than last year. Dick also notices that Clint’s almost as tall as Dick’s dad – and he’s filled out quite a bit, too. It’s clear that he’s still got some growing ahead of him, but Clint is definitely edging closer to looking more like an adult than a kid. While Dick’s had his own small growth spurt in the past year, he finds himself a little envious and impatient to catch up.

Much to Dick’s frustration, his dad puts them both to work doing separate tasks, so they don’t have a chance to catch up until a couple of hours later when the Grayson camp is squared away and Dick’s parents leave to go see their own friends that they only see during the winter season. Dick and Clint dump onto Dick’s bed, Dick lying on his side, head propped on a hand, while Clint’s sitting up, leaning against the wall.

“Tell me everything,” Dick demands.

Clint reaches into his pocket and just like the year before, he pulls out Dick’s lucky coin and flips it to him. “Don’t need this anymore.”

“Really?” Dick sits up.

Clint grins. “I’m performing full-time with Trick Shot now.”

“Oh my god, that’s awesome!” Dick chirps excitedly. “What’s your part in the act?”

“Mostly I shoot behind Trick. But once in a while I get to step to the front for a couple of shots.”

“Are you still working with the Swordsman, too?”

Clint shakes his head. “No, Mr. Carson wants me to focus on working with the bow.”

“Was Duquesne mad?” Circus folk can be very proprietary about their shows, and poaching performers has been known to result in some pretty spectacular dust-ups.

Clint shifts and grimaces a little. “Yeah. But it wasn’t my decision. I mean, I can’t exactly say no to Mr. Carson. Not if I want to have _any_ job.”

Dick nods. Clint’s right, he didn’t have a choice, but he’s not optimistic that the Swordsman sees it that way; he’s seen people carry long grudges over that kind of thing. He just hopes that Mr. Carson bothers to smooth things over. But, there’s nothing to be done about it now. “Tell me all about the show.”

Clint’s demeanor shifts to full-on animated and Dick settles back with a smile, listening to his friend’s chatter. He has a gleam in his eye when he wraps up his monologue with, “A few people around Carson’s are even starting to call me Hawkeye.”

Dick laughs. “That’s great!”

"But the best thing is no more morning practices. Mr. Carson likes the show more, so Trick Shot's got an afternoon practice slot - same time as you - so we'll have more time to hang out." Clint reaches up and taps the small carving that hangs above Dick’s bed; the miniature aerialist swings gracefully. “Now tell me about your summer.”

“It was mostly good. We went up the Seaboard again but stopped in a few new places. In August I was working on some new horse tricks when something spooked Sugar and she bucked a little and sent me flying. I sprained my wrist and had to sit things out for a couple weeks.” Dick flexes his right wrist back and forth a couple of times. “Other than that, things were pretty normal.” A second later, Dick’s stomach growls loudly, and he taps his friend. “Hey, are you hungry?” Before Clint can answer, he’s up and heading for the kitchen. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”

Clint sits at the table while Dick digs through the kitchen. It's pretty empty because they’ve done some hard driving the last few days to get to winter quarters, and his mom hasn’t been to the grocery store yet. He grabs an open bag of tortilla chips from the cupboard and spreads some on a plate, then digs out a brick of cheddar cheese from the depths of the refrigerator. “Hey, Natty,” he says, dragging up the nickname that he bestowed on Clint the previous year, “What do you call cheese that isn’t yours?”

Clint groans and drops his head onto the table for a second before looking up at Dick again. “You’re gonna tell me even if I tell you I don’t care, aren’t you?”

Dick grins. “Nacho cheese.”

Clint growls and grabs a chip, flicking it. Dick tries to duck away, but Clint anticipates, so the triangular point still hits him in the face.

“Ow, ow!” Dick howls, bending over and covering one eye with his hand.

Clint is up like a shot. “I’m sorry! Are you okay? Let me see.” He tries to gently pry Dick’s hand away.

In the blink of an eye, Dick straightens and snags an arm around Clint’s neck, laughing as he wrestles him to the ground. 

“Damn you!” Clint yells but he’s laughing, too.

They tussle for a few moments, but Clint’s bigger and stronger than Dick, so before long, he’s got both of Dick’s hands pinned above his head with one hand, and his other is clamped over Dick’s mouth. “Promise you’re done with the jokes for tonight?” he says, straddling Dick’s hips.

Dick laughs behind Clint’s hand, then bucks his hips and snakes his tongue out, running it along Clint’s palm. Clint releases him like he’s been burned, and before Dick knows it, he’s moved and is sitting leaning against the cupboards a couple feet away with his knees pulled up.

Dick’s not sure what just happened, but he sits up and repositions himself next to Clint. His eyes flicker down to the bottom of Clint’s shirt, then back up to Clint’s face. He reaches out and lightly grasps the edge of the shirt but doesn’t pull on it, wanting to look, but waiting for Clint to tell him it’s okay.

Clint rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.”

Dick shrugs. “Can I… see for myself? Just… I’ve been really worried all summer,” he says quietly.

Clint watches his face for a few seconds, then rotates his torso around and tugs his shirt up, exposing his back. Aside from a few small scars, there are no marks or bruises. Dick is instantly relieved.

Clint turns back toward Dick, his face serious but open. “Had a bad show one night after he— and, well, Mr. Carson was pissed and yelled at us both.” He shrugs. “After that, he never hit me again.”

Dick blows out a breath and flashes a relieved smile. “Good. That’s good.”

Clint stands and, after a brief hesitation, reaches out a hand to Dick, pulling him to his feet. “Come on, let’s eat.”

* * *

One Saturday early in the winter season, when the weather is mild and sunny, they’re messing around in one of the groves. Clint is sitting on a branch halfway up the tree, lazily leaning on the trunk with his bow in his hand while Dick runs through a series of acrobatics, springing and flipping through the grass.

“Hey, I was thinking about trying something,” Clint says.

“Uh huh?” Dick answers as he springs into a double flip. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clint reach up and grab a missed orange out of the tree.

“Can you maybe… throw this orange, let me see if I can hit it.”

Dick stops his routine to look at Clint. “Do you think you can?”

“I dunno.” Clint shrugs. “I _feel _like I can, but I haven’t ever tried. I can kind of see it in my head, though, you know?”

Dick reaches out his hand, catching the orange Clint drops from above. “How do you want me to throw it? Up high? Or out and away?”

Clint drops gracefully down from the branch and pulls off his sweatshirt, tossing it aside before he nocks an arrow. He grins. “Surprise me.”

Dick rears back and does both, throwing as high as he can, but away from them as well. A split second later, he sees the blur of an arrow releasing and a split second after that, the orange careens off course and the arrow falls from the sky.

Dick whoops and they both run toward where the orange landed. He picks up the mangled fruit from the ground; the arrow has sliced through it leaving a messy, pulpy hole. “Holy shit,” he breathes out. “That was amazing!” Clint is blushing a little but is clearly equally excited. “Come on, do it again,” Dick says, craning his head to look up into the trees to find more oranges.

Clint does the same, and ten minutes later, they have a small pile of them.

“Okay, ready,” Clint nods, nocking an arrow and setting his stance.

This time, Dick throws it straight, like he’s pitching a baseball, and just like the previous time, the orange is a pulpy mess on the ground a second later. They keep at it until all of the oranges they can find are shot through with arrows; Clint didn’t miss a single one.

As they come back together from gathering Clint’s arrows, Dick grabs Clint’s arm. The inside of his forearm is red and there are bruises rising already from the snap-back of the string on the bow. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

Clint tugs his arm away and rubs it with his other hand. “A little. It’s not too bad.”

“We should’ve waited until you had your guards with you.”

Clint shakes his head. “Nah. Trick says I need to work on toughening up the skin there.”

There’s a part of Dick that still wants to protest, but he’s spent years building the callouses on his hands for the Flying Graysons show, and he’s self-aware enough to know his objection is mostly because he doesn’t like Trick Shot, so instead he says, “Do you think you could hit something smaller?”

“Maybe. Like what?”

“I don’t know, but maybe something that doesn’t leave your arrows all sticky.” He hands the projectiles back to Clint, then wipes his hands on his pants.

Clint laughs. “Good idea.”

* * *

They spend several days practicing with Clint shooting at smaller and smaller things. Walnuts, pecans, peanuts, coins. As Dick throws them, it takes Clint a couple shots to adjust to the speed and distance, but he always masters it quickly. Lately, he’s been hanging upside down from a tree branch while he shoots to give himself more of a challenge. Dick is impressed; he grew up in the circus and he’s seen a lot of performers and acts in his life, but he’s never seen the kind of natural skill Clint seems to have.

“Have you shown Trick Shot what you can do?”

“No. You know how Trick is. He likes to call the shots, literally. He’d be pissed if he knew I was out here doing things beyond what he wants me to be doing.”

“He’s just jealous. You’re better than him already, Natty, you know you are.”

Clint grunts noncommittally and swings himself upright on the branch. “It’s his show,” he says, fiddling with his bow, and it feels to Dick like he’s doing it on purpose to avoid looking at Dick. “I have to do what he tells me, or he can pull me out just as easily as he put me in.” 

Dick scowls at that and scrambles up the tree, situating himself next to his friend and bumping their shoulders together. “Someday you’ll have your own show, and then you won’t have to listen to that asshole.”

Clint nods. “Someday,” he says, sounding, oddly, more defiant than determined. 

* * *

“Hey,” Dick says one day after Clint has hit every single thing he has thrown, no matter what size. “What if, instead of shooting at moving targets, we work on _you _moving and shooting at a fixed target.”

Clint smoothly flips out of the tree onto his feet in a move that Dick taught him the previous year. “What are you thinking?” he asks, clearly intrigued.

“What if you incorporated aerialist work with your shooting? Like from the trapeze.”

Clint thinks about it for a second and then his face transforms to pure excitement. “That would be really cool. Let’s go see if we can find some empty air.”

“Clint, wait,” Dick says, grabbing his friend’s arm. “It’s not something… we can’t go in there without a plan - that’s not safe. First we sketch out some ideas and then we can go try them out.” 

Clint makes a dismissive noise. “It’ll be fine.

“No, listen. Rule number one is you start with a plan. My parents would kill me if I took you up there and started messing around without one.”

Invoking Dick’s parents tempers Clint’s insistence and after a few seconds, he grudgingly says, “Yeah, okay.”

That evening, they get out some paper and pencils and outline some ideas; some tricks Dick and his parents use, some he’s seen used by others in the past, but also some original ones they come up with on their own. They work deep into the night and by the time they fall asleep, side-by-side in Dick’s bed, they’ve filled several pages with sketches of stick figures and arrows drawn all over them. 

* * *

After that, they work in earnest on Clint’s aerialist skills, taking his acrobatic training to the next level. They need to make sure he has the moves down first, before they put his bow in his hand. Clint’s pretty much mastered the tricks on the ground and the high wire, so they focus mostly on the trapeze. They’ve messed around with it a little in the past, but it was just that – messing around. Now their time in the air has purpose.

Dick loves every minute of it. There’s nothing more fun in the world for him than working up high; sharing it with his friend makes it that much sweeter.

* * *

Christmas comes and loose schedules get even looser. School is off for almost a month and performers pull back on practice, doing just enough to keep in shape, but worrying less about rigorous training. It’s as close as they come to getting a true vacation all year. Dick and Clint spend most of their free time together, often at the Grayson’s camp. On Christmas Eve, he’s there early in the morning to help Dick’s mom prep their meal for the next day. The Grayson’s holiday traditions are a mix of American and Romani, so Clint learns the secrets to making a juicy turkey and, as far as Dick’s concerned, the best stuffing anywhere because it uses xaritsa – a special Romani fried cornbread – instead of white bread cubes.

Dick’s parents invite Clint to stay the night so he can be with them on Christmas morning. Despite the amount of time that Clint spends with his family, Dick knows his friend well enough to know that he'll feel like he shouldn't intrude on the holiday, so Dick pesters and cajoles until he wears him down and Clint eventually agrees.

Clint doesn’t volunteer where Barney is spending Christmas, and Dick doesn’t ask.

* * *

When Dick opens his eyes on Christmas morning, Clint is lying on his side, watching Dick. Dick smiles, but Clint blushes and quickly sits up, turning his back.

“Everything okay?” Dick asks, as he sits up himself.

“Yeah.” Clint is casting around on the floor for his sweatshirt. As soon as he snags it, he’s up and pulling it over his head.

Dick clamors out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom. When he comes out, his parents are already sitting around the tiny Christmas tree in their small living room, but Clint is just around the corner in the kitchen, standing stiffly, like he has no idea what to do with himself.

Dick pours two cups of coffee, handing one to Clint. “Come on,” he says quietly, nudging his friend and then leading him into the room.

Dick’s parents smile when they see them, wishing the boys a happy Christmas. Clint cuts the stollen he made himself (which he is clearly very proud of) and serves some to everyone, beaming when they all heap praise on his effort.

The same as the two previous years, Dick’s mom has knitted Clint a new sweater – this one dark purple. When Clint puts it on, she looks at him and says, “Oh, Clint, dear, you should wear that color all the time. It’s lovely on you. So handsome!”

Clint shoots a pleading, embarrassed look at Dick, and Dick almost startles because the color of the sweater makes Clint’s eyes look a remarkable shade of green and they stand out in sharp contrast to the purple. Dick swallows and gives Clint a shaky smile before quickly turning away to pull another gift from under the tree.

He digs around until he finds the one he wrapped for his friend. Clint carefully opens it, breathing out audibly when he sees the small, leather-bound Moleskin with a leather strap, accompanied by a pen and pencil set.

“It’s for you to put ideas for your act. I mean. If you want. You can use it for other stuff, too.”

“Thank you, Dick,” Clint says quietly, hand caressing the soft cover of the book.

Dick’s not sure why he feels suddenly awkward, but he does, so he quickly grabs more presents and starts distributing them. 

Clint has a little bit of money these days, so even though Dick told him he didn’t need to, he’s bought gifts for Dick’s parents: a nice pair of leather gloves for Dick’s dad; and a pretty silk scarf for his mom.

He gives Dick a bound Captain America comic run, and a third carving. The first had been Dick; last year, he’d given Dick one that was meant to be his mom; and this year, the small carving Clint gives him is clearly a miniature of Dick’s dad, hanging one-handed from a trapeze. They’re getting better; each year’s effort is less crude, a little more intricate. Dick’s dad beams and nods at the likeness. Dick will hang this one over his bed with the other two. He likes to watch them when they’re on the road, the motion of the trailer causing them to swing gracefully over his head. When they’re not driving-when the trailer is still-Dick will often tap them and watch them swing. It always makes him feel cheerful.

The morning is lazy for both boys, and the afternoon is lazy for Dick. Not so much for Clint, who spends a few hours helping Dick’s mom in the kitchen. At one point, Dick sees him scratching in his new moleskin. “I’m putting recipes starting in the back,” he tells Dick, “and I’m going to put ideas for the act in the front.”

Dick nods, something warm and happy settling into his chest at knowing he’d chosen a good gift for his friend.

After dinner, friends of Dick’s parents come to visit, and Clint and Dick leave, giving the adults more space in the crowded trailer.

It’s cold and drizzling rain, so they set a course toward the small trailer Clint and Barney now have to themselves. As they walk, they sing Christmas carols and laugh, riding a sugar high from too many cookies. The laughter dies away, though, when they round a corner and see Barney step out of the Baton’s trailer about twenty yards away. He stops and leans against the door under the small awning with his arms crossed, glaring at them.

“Well, look who’s here,” he calls out, and the words slur a little. “Merry Christmas, little brother.” The way he says it is more menacing than sincere.

Clint stops Dick with a hand to the arm. “Shit. I didn’t think he’d be around tonight. You should go.”

“Clint—”

“It’s alright. But he’s drunk and when he gets like this he’s always spoiling for a fight.”

“What about you?” Dick flicks his eyes uneasily from Clint to his brother, who’s starting to move toward them.

“I’ll be fine. Barney’s a jerk sometimes, but he won’t hurt me. Please, just go.” When Dick hesitates, he catches Dick’s eye and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Okay,” Dick reluctantly acquiesces. But when he doesn’t make any move to leave, Clint gives him a gentle shove.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says again.

Dick sighs and walks back the way they came, but his disquiet about Barney Barton makes him stop once he’s ducked around the corner so he can listen and make sure that Clint will be okay.

From there, he hears Barney say, “You can pretend you’re one of them all you want. But you and I will always know the truth.”

“Barney—” Clint says, though Dick can barely hear it. There are layers and complexity in that single uttered word that probably only the two brothers would ever understand.

“Do the high and mighty Graysons know how you keep your place in the show?” His words sound taunting and cruel, and Dick furrows his brow, not understanding what Barney means.

“Shut up, Barney,” Clint says low and angry.

“You’d think the sun shines outta your asshole the way you walk around with that fucking bow and arrow.”

Dick’s hackles go up and he hazards a peak around the corner at the two brothers. They’ve moved over closer to the trailer now.

Clint makes a frustrated noise. “Why are you so angry?”

_“Because it was supposed to be me!”_ Barney roars and shoves Clint hard against the wall of the trailer. “You stole my chance, you little pissant. I was working on Trick Shot, he was gonna give me a shot at being in the show, but then you had to come along and show me up. Fucking ‘_Hawkeye’,_” he adds with contempt.

“I’m sorry! I never woulda done that on purpose, Barney, you know I wouldn’t.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Barney says dismissively. “Besides, I’d rather go my own way than be a little cocksucker like you.”

Dick startles when he sees Clint lash out and punch Barney, knocking him to the ground, before he throws open the trailer door and storms inside. Barney just lays there in the mud – he must be drunker than Dick realized – and a few seconds later, Clint comes back out and drops something on Barney’s chest. “Merry Christmas,” he spits, the words angry and choked with emotion.

Dick knows that Clint had been saving all summer and fall to buy his brother a top-of-the-line Leatherman tool. He had gone to town with Clint to buy it and it had cost almost $200 - a lot for an apprentice in a circus act. Dick had had to stop himself from questioning Clint about whether he wanted to do it or not, because he’d seen how hopeful Clint had been that it might mean something to Barney. He watches as Clint turns and leaves, bypassing the trailer and disappearing into the dark.

The smart thing to do would be to turn around and go home, to forget about Barney Barton and leave, the way Clint asked him to. But Dick’s always hated bullies and he dislikes this one in particular. He knows he’s being an idiot, that just because he got in a lucky shot the winter before, and Barney is drunk, it doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. Still, Dick steps out of the shadows just as Barney is standing up.

Barney scoffs at the sight of him but doesn’t say anything, just turns his back to Dick as though he’s no threat.

All that does is make Dick madder. He steps closer. “He worked hard to save money to get that for you.”

Barney turns and glares. “What’s between me and my brother is none of your fucking business, you little shitstain.”

“You’re just jealous,” Dick snarls, stepping closer.

Dick expects Barney to try to punch him in the face; he’s anticipating it and ready to sidestep him when he does, but Barney surprises him by going low and gut-punching him instead. Dick grunts and doubles over, breath gone, replaced by sharp, pulsating pain. His legs buckle, but Barney’s got a grip on his jacket and he holds onto him so he can wind up and punch him even harder in the same place.

Dick retches and Barney drops him onto the wet ground, quickly stepping to the side as Dick’s Christmas dinner spews onto the dirt. On his hands and knees, Dick’s eyes water as his stomach throbs and cramps.

“Maybe I am jealous,” Barney says easily while Dick continues to heave up turkey and stuffing. Dick sees him step close and he braces for another hit, but instead, Barney squats down next to him and says conversationally into his ear, “But at least I’m not on my fucking knees for Trick Shot.” He stands up and uses his boot to shove Dick over onto his side.

Dick curls up tight, arms wrapped around his stomach, still gagging and trying to spit away the taste of vomit. “You’re crazy,” he wheezes between his gasps for air. “Why would he beg Trick Shot when he’s already in the show.”

Barney looms over him. “Jesus Christ, you are fucking stupid, aren’t you?” He barks a laugh. “What the hell does my brother see in you?” he asks. A second later, he cocks his head and gives Dick a nasty smile. “You are kinda pretty, though, so I guess that’s probably it.” He laughs again, mostly to himself it seems, and then he, too, disappears into the shadows.

Dick rolls onto his back, staring up at the dark sky as drops of cold rain fall onto his face. He has no idea what Barney was talking about; none of it made sense. But then, he is drunk, so there’s probably no point in trying to make sense of it. Dick groans and works his way to his feet. His stomach hurts like hell and another wave of nausea hits him. He breathes carefully, bending over with his hands on his knees for a moment until it passes. Slowly, he straightens up, then with an arm wrapped gingerly around his stomach, he starts the long walk home.

The next morning, when Clint shows up at their camp, he doesn’t say anything about his brother, or what had happened the night before, so Dick doesn’t either.

* * *

School is due to start again in early January, and Dick isn't excited about it. Except for the altercation with Barney Barton on Christmas night, the nearly four-week break has been about perfect. He and Clint have had long days to do as they pleased – no school in the morning or practice in the afternoon – so they walk Clint repetitively through trapeze routines during the day in the mostly empty tents, coming up with new ideas as they sit together at night on Dick’s bed. Clint carefully draws them in his moleskin, with notes scratched all around. They’re both anxious to add Clint’s bow to the mix, but even Clint understands now that he needs to master some of the aerial work before they can do that. School starting again means that they’ll have less time for it, though.

The night before school resumes, they’re at the Grayson’s table working on the math packets that Miss Temple had given them to complete over the break – more stupid algebra equations. They’re sitting side by side on the banquette, and they’ve barely started, but Dick’s sick of it already.

He tips over onto his back, plopping his head onto Clint’s lap.

Clint looks down at him and snorts, then goes back to his work. “Dick, we have a lot of problems to finish by tomorrow. If you don’t start on them soon, you’ll be up all night.”

Dick sighs. For the most part, he likes school, likes learning new things. But sometimes it just gets old, especially when it comes to math. “Sucks. I don’t know why Miss Temple felt like she had to give us work to do over the break. We’re supposed to be on vacation. It’s not vacation if we have homework.”

“Stop whining,” Clint says, feigning exasperation, but Dick has long learned his particular tones of voice and he knows that Clint’s not really annoyed.

Looking up at his friend from this angle gives him a whole different perspective. Clint has a constellation of freckles under his chin that Dick’s never seen before. His fingers itch to touch, and he has to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out. “Don’t you ever get tired of school?” he asks instead.

“Not really.” Clint has hunched himself a little awkwardly so he can accommodate Dick while continuing to work on his homework.

“I don’t believe you. No one likes school that much.”

Clint stops, sits back, and looks down at Dick, considering. Eventually he says, “School’s always been safe. People don’t hurt me there. And in regular schools, there’s free breakfast and hot lunch.” He shrugs. “I guess I feel kinda like I owe it somehow, to work hard and do my best. Like, it’s the least I can do.” Clint’s gaze flicks uneasily between Dick and back to his work on the table.

It’s the first time outside of their argument the previous year that Clint has intentionally revealed a piece of his difficult past. When Dick looks back on things, he thinks that maybe this was Clint testing the waters, laying some unsavory bits of his life bare, to see if Dick would turn away. If there were limits to his friendship. 

But Dick doesn’t understand that now. Right now, his privileged life makes him want to hide his face in shame. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he nods at his friend, then sits up and picks up his pencil and starts working on his math problems.

It’s the least he can do.

* * *

They go to the nets on a Tuesday night in early March while the Circus Council is in session, both of them excited to finally try adding Clint’s bow into the mix.

They consign a few of the younger kids they know from school to be runners, retrieving Clint’s arrows and bringing them back up the ladder to their perch so they can run through the tricks over and over again. Clint shoots, the kids fetch the arrows and climb up to the platform. Dick swings over to get them, then swings to Clint on the other trapeze and hands them off.

The tricks work. Every one of them. Dick and Clint fly and flip and grab one another out of the air and all the while, Clint is shooting arrows. Every single one hits its intended target.

Dick doesn’t know how long they’re at it – he always gets into a funny headspace when he’s working, losing track of time and his surroundings, only focused on his movements and those of his partner, how to twist his body to get it where it needs to go, where his hands need to be, catching and releasing. _Flying._

When they finally stop, each of them swinging from a different trapeze, Dick says, “Release,” and they both let go, falling safely into the nets below. They bounce until they still, and then he turns and grins at Clint, who is sweaty and red-faced, and looking about as happy as Dick remembers ever seeing him.

A second later, the tent is resounding in applause. They both look up in surprise to see a couple dozen people who have come into the tent while the two of them were too focused to notice. They’re clapping and cheering and whistling as Dick and Clint maneuver to the edge of the net and scramble out. 

When they get on firm ground, Mr. Carson is there, red-faced and beaming. “Well, now, Boy, why didn’t you ever tell me you could do that?” he booms.

“Uh, I didn’t really know that I could,” Clint mumbles, eyes on the ground.

“What’s that you’re saying?”

Clint looks at Dick, unsure what to say, but Dick nudges him with his elbow, urging him on.

Clint straightens up and looks at Mr. Carson. “Um, Dick and I have been messing around with the trapeze for a while now, and messing around with the bow, but this was the first time we tried to put them together.”

“The first—” Carson sputters, staring at him. “You mean to tell me that you’ve only just tonight tried this for the very first time?” he asks incredulously.

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says bashfully.

“Chisholm!” Mr. Carson bellows and wheels around. When Trick Shot emerges from the crowd and approaches, Carson gets in his face. “What the hell have you been doing? How did you not know what this kid could do?”

Despite the veneer of control on Trick Shot’s face, there’s pure fury in the man’s eyes as he glances their way. Beside him, Clint tenses, and Dick puts a hand on his shoulder. They’d devised a whole strategy for how to introduce the idea of Clint’s new skills to Trick Shot, and Dick had screwed it all up. He shouldn’t have let himself lose track of things while they were practicing, he should have been aware that people had started to come into the tent.

It suddenly feels like things are spiraling out of control, and while Clint tries to explain everything to Mr. Carson and Trick Shot, Dick’s mind is racing to think of a way to fix things. The crowd begins to disburse, but movement across the ring catches his eye and Dick’s bad feeling gets even worse when he squints into the shadows to see the Swordsman murmur in Barney Barton’s ear while Barney smirks.

When Dick looks back at Clint, mouth open ready to jump in and say something (he has no idea what), his friend gives him a tiny shake of the head. A moment later, Mr. Carson is storming out of the tent and Trick Shot is dragging Clint along behind him. Dick starts to follow but Clint turns and meets his eye, this time with a firm mouth and decisive shake of the head.

As he lies in bed later that night, Dick has a hard time quelling the uneasy feeling in his gut. 

* * *

The next day, Clint doesn’t show up at school until after their break, and when he does arrive and slips onto the picnic table next to Dick, he’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and a tight, closed-off expression.

“Are you okay?” Dick whispers.

Clint doesn’t look at him, just flips through his textbook to get to right page as he murmurs, “Yeah, fine.”

The knots in Dick's stomach tighten and he can’t focus on anything Miss Temple is saying. He spends the rest of the morning stealing furtive glances at his friend, who never looks his way.

When their teacher releases them for the day, Clint makes a move to stand, but Dick puts a hand on his leg, stopping him. “Where were you this morning?” Dick asks. The other kids have scrambled out, but Miss Temple is still working at her desk, so Dick keeps his voice low.

Clint shoves his notebook into his backpack, and his face is blank when he says, “Nowhere. I just overslept.” 

“I’m really sorry I lost track of things. If I hadn’t—"

“Dick,” Clint interrupts, finally turning to face him with a smile, “everything’s fine.”

“Was Trick Shot pissed?”

Clint shakes his head. “Nah. He just wanted to look through the ideas we worked up. We were up late; it’s why I missed the first half of class.” He gives Dick another smile. “It’s all good, Dick. Stop worrying.” He zips up his backpack and stands. “I’m gonna go talk to Miss Temple for a minute. I’ll meet you outside.”

When Clint comes out of their school five minutes later, he chides Dick for being a worrywart, but lifts up his sweatshirt and shirt nonetheless, before Dick can even ask. “See for yourself,” he says, “I’m fine.”

Dick’s eyes dart across the exposed skin, looking for signs that Trick Shot had hurt him again, but there are none. At first, it doesn’t really stop Dick’s nagging worry. But as the day goes on, Clint _does_ seem fine, and Dick finds himself finally relaxing and starting to believe he is.

* * *

A week later, Dick’s birthday rolls around and the evening finds them collapsed on Dick’s bed in a kind of sugar coma after the two of them ate the majority of Dick’s coconut cake by themselves.

Dick’s flipping through a new comic book when he glances across at his friend, finding him fast asleep. Clint’s hair has flopped into his face and Dick realizes that his fingers itch to brush it back onto Clint’s forehead. He swallows hard and keeps his hands to himself because that would be weird.

He can’t keep himself from continuing to stare at his friend, though. Clint’s lying on his side with his bottom hand tucked under his head, his other arm hangs loosely across his stomach. He looks peaceful, and the fact that his breaths are even and steady is reassuring to Dick for some reason. His eyes skate over Clint until he notices that the sleeve of his sweatshirt has tugged up a little, and he can see some discoloration. He leans forward to peer more closely, lightly sliding a finger into the stretched-out cuff and pushing it back a little more.

There’s a distinct ring of red and purple bruising around Clint’s wrist. Dick swallows thickly and shifts his eyes to Clint’s other arm. Using great care, he takes the sleeve of the sweatshirt between this thumb and forefinger, and tugs, ever so gently. There’s a corresponding ring around that wrist as well. Fear claws at him, without fully understanding why. He swallows and shifts very carefully on the bed so he can hook a finger under the hem of Clint’s sweatshirt and lift it up to peer at his back. There’s nothing there and Dick quietly breathes out a relieved sigh. A second later, Clint stirs and Dick jerks back.

Clint’s eyes open, and he blinks a few times. “Oh,” he says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” He sucks in a deep yawn. Dick doesn’t miss how he pulls his sleeves down immediately.

“It’s alright. You know you can stay whenever you want.”

“I know,” Clint says, but he’s already moving to stand up. Outside, there’s a rumble of thunder. He groans as rains starts to patter on the window.

“Stay,” Dick says. “You’ll be soaked by the time you get home if you leave now.”

Clint relents easily. “Yeah, okay.” He heaves a sigh and drops down onto the bed again.

“Hey, what happened to your wrists?”

Clint freezes for a split second and then gives Dick a blank look. “What?”

“They’re all bruised.”

Clint rubs one wrist and then pulls the sleeves further down and grips the end of them in his fists. He smiles. “It’s nothing. Trick gave me some new guards to try out. The strap was a little tight.”

Dick’s eyebrows climb. “On both arms?”

“I’m working on my ambidextrous shooting, remember?”

“Why didn’t you take them off before they did that?” He gestures toward Clint’s wrists.

Clint shrugs. “You know how I get when I shoot. I lose track.”

It’s plausible; Dick’s worked blisters onto his hands many times without noticing until after he’d stopped practicing. But, still, something about it feels wrong to Dick.

Clint huffs. “I’m fine.” He gives Dick a reassuring smile.

Dick’s not sure why or about what, exactly, but he’s pretty sure Clint just looked him in the face and lied.

* * *

They’re lying in a grove, eeking out the last moments of their time together before both troupes take off for the summer season, when Dick digs in his pocket and takes out his lucky half-dollar. He looks at it thoughtfully for a moment, then turns his head toward his friend. “Natty—"

Clint shakes his head when he sees it. “No. There’s no way I’m taking that again. I’ve had it the last two summers. It’s yours.”

Dick sits up. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Clint sits up, too, and leans back against the tree trunk. “Okay…”

Dick threads the coin one-handed through his fingers. “I’m gonna throw it, and I want you to shoot it with an arrow.”

Clint eyebrows dart inward. “_Why?_”

“I… it’s sorta hard to explain.” Dick makes a frustrated face.

“It could wreck it. Bend it, or even break it in half. Remember when I was shooting the pennies? They got all messed up.”

Dick considers for a few seconds. “I think that’s kinda the point.”

Clint looks momentarily confused, then shakes his head and says, “You’re weird, Grayson.”

Dick laughs. “Probably. But I still want you to do it.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

Dick scrambles to his feet and Clint follows. “Ready?” Dick asks, setting himself, getting ready to throw.

Clint nocks an arrow and draws the bow. “As I’ll ever be.”

Dick rears back and throws the half-dollar as hard as he can. Clint follows it for a split second and then looses his arrow. There’s a distant ‘tink’ as it makes contact. Dick runs in the direction that he thinks the coin flew but he’d lost track of it when the arrow hit. He’s starting to worry that he’s been an idiot and lost it for good, when Clint approaches after retrieving the arrow and walks purposely over to a spot about fifteen feet from Dick, bending down and picking up the coin. 

“Let’s see,” Dick says, stepping alongside of him.

Clint drops the half-dollar into Dick’s hand. Clint was right – the arrow bent the coin, but as far as Dick’s concerned, it’s not wrecked. Dick smiles. “It’s perfect.”

“Like I said, you’re weird,” Clint says, still dubious.

It’s hard for Dick to put into words, it’s like, the coin is _both_ of theirs now. Dick’s, of course, but also with an undeniable element of Clint to it. Satisfied, he slips the coin into his pocket.

Seconds later, they hear Dick’s mom calling his name and they both turn to see her waving, letting him know that it’s time to leave. Dick feels like there are words stuck in his throat, but he doesn’t know what they are. He gets the impression that Clint maybe feels the same way. They mumble awkward good-byes and start to go their separate ways, but, impulsively, Dick reaches out and pulls Clint into a hug. Clint is stiff for a couple of seconds, but then he melts into Dick, snaking his arms around his back and squeezing tightly. 

As the Grayson trailer pulls out of winter quarters and heads north, Dick lies listlessly on his bed. He watches the small carvings of his family sway and dance overhead and a wave of melancholy washes over him. He rolls onto his side and tries to sleep.

* * *

Dick will look back on this winter that he was 14 as the one where he was stupid and naïve, and he will have regrets he can hardly face. Despite growing up in a circus, it is this summer that will make Dick realize – in retrospect - how cloistered his upbringing really was. With his parents, he was never exposed to the evil that some people have in their hearts, so he could not even imagine what his friend was enduring. It will also be the last summer that they will get to spend their mornings together at school, because when they reunite the following autumn, Clint will be on a path that neither of them ever predicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These damn chapters just get longer and longer. Your thoughts and feedback about that - or anything else - are hugely appreciated!


	5. 15/16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks... RL, yadda, yadda, yadda.
> 
> Much thanks to Milly and Britt for their beta skills. I added more than 2k after getting it back from them, so you know any mistakes or awkwardness are mine.

The winter that Dick is 15 and Clint is 16, Haly’s gets to Florida mid-afternoon on a Wednesday. As they drive through the winter quarters, Dick catches a glimpse of familiar trailers, so he knows Carson’s has already arrived. He races through his set-up work, always keeping one eye peeled for Clint. He finishes in record time but Clint still hasn’t turned up, so he heads toward the Carson encampment.

He’s making his way systematically through the various tents, when a broadside poster on a trailer catches his eye. His unconscious stops his feet from continuing on before he even has a thought in his head about what he’s seeing. His eyes go wide and his jaw drops.

It’s not your typical, everyday broadside poster. It’s a headliner’s poster, scaled larger-than-life (by a lot), and intended to be highly visible. It’s a lifelike drawing of an archer, virtually glowing in rich, textured colors, meant to draw your eye and keep it there for a minute. Meant to make you want to pay your money to see the show. Dick’s heart pounds in his chest, and he blinks several times to be sure he’s seeing what he thinks he’s seeing.

The broadside advertises “The Amazing Hawkeye”, and there is no doubt that it’s his friend on the poster. Carson must have commissioned one hell of an artist for this one – and paid them a lot.

The background is violet purple, but there’s a soft golden glow around its tanned, shirtless subject. He is standing at an angle, arrow nocked, bicep bulging from the strain of the heavy draw of his bow. A quiver strap crosses his chest, and a handful of fletching can be seen peeking out behind his shoulder. He’s wearing dark purple pants – darker than the background – slung low on his hips and twinkling with the finest specks of gold. Dick swallows hard at how the artist used color and shadows to highlight his physique; his pecs and abdomen muscles are clearly defined, the v-lines on his hips deeply-cut and prominent.

Dick’s mouth goes dry taking in this new version of Clint, but even more impressive is his face; it’s _alive._ Most circus posters are more or less cartoonish, their faces caricatures, but this…this is lifelike and…_beautiful._ Clint’s face is a golden bronze, and whoever the artist is, they’ve perfectly captured the look that Clint gets when he’s shooting – focused, like there’s nothing else in the world around him. His eyes are practically glowing that peculiar shade of blue-green that Dick has only ever seen on Clint. They’ve even captured the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his chronically disheveled blond hair. 

He’s so absorbed in the poster that he doesn’t notice when someone steps up beside him.

“It’s nice, huh?”

He startles to see Minnie, one of Carson’s animal handlers; Clint had introduced them a couple of years ago. And older woman, she’d been kind to Clint and Barney in her own way when they joined Carson’s.

“It’s amazing,” Dick answers, a little breathless with awe.

Minnie’s eyes gleam. “It’s the best paper Carson ever commissioned.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She nods. “Carson knows he’s got something special with that one. Drew record crowds this season.”

“Really?” Dick says excitedly, turning back to the poster.

“Mmhm. We’ve had our marksmen acts and our aerialist acts, but he’s the first one I’ve ever seen to combine them both. You taught him well, young Grayson.”

“My dad always says the most important part of teaching someone is having a willing pupil.”

“Well, there’s a lot of truth there. That boy sure does work hard, I’ll give him that.”

Dick nods. “You have any idea where he is?”

She gives him a knowing smile. “Probably over in Tent 8.” She juts her chin off to the left.

Dick’s dashing away before she barely has the words out. “Thank you,” he calls out over his shoulder, more anxious than ever to see his friend.

“Hey, kid!” she yells after him and Dick stops. She’s grinning like a Cheshire cat when she says, “They made a whole run of them. Smaller of course. They give ‘em away at the gate during the season. Martinez can get you one from the baggage wagon if you’re interested.”

Oh, yes, Dick is very much interested. A wide grin spreads across his face. “Thanks, Minnie!”

At the tent, he spots an aerialist flying above the nets and he’s formulating the thought that he’s impressed when he realizes that the figure is familiar. He watches, mesmerized, as his friend swings and dives, flips and shoots. He’s not quite as graceful as Dick probably is – and probably never will be since Dick was born to their act and Clint only started learning a few years ago - but he’s much smoother and more accomplished than he was when they had parted the previous spring.

And bigger. Clint’s is…definitely not a kid anymore in any way, shape, or form. He’s noticeably taller by a good bit – he’s got to be a couple of inches over six feet, at least - and it’s obvious through his skin-tight practice gear that his shoulders are broader and more heavily muscled. Hell, his whole damn body is bulked up. He has muscles on top of muscles. _Shit_.

During the summer season, Dick had faced the realization that the several awkward moments he and Clint had shared the previous winter were the result of his growing attraction to Clint, in a more-than-friends kind of way. One week in August, at the Virginia shore, Dick had met a pretty local girl who’d pulled him into a dark clump of trees at the edge of the fairgrounds, and Dick had pretended he’d known what he was doing when she pressed her mouth to his. She slid her tongue into Dick’s, the world had lit up behind his eyes, his body buzzed from head to toe. They’d had a few fumbling late-night make-out sessions that left Dick hard and aching in his pants. And then Haly’s had moved on. The encounter awakened Dick’s inner, horny teenaged boy, but instead of thinking about the girl in Virginia when he took his extra-long showers, his thoughts increasingly turned to Clint.

There’s definitely no denying his feelings; just watching Clint hang from his knees on the trapeze and unerringly hit his tiny targets while he swings, has Dick’s face flushing and a warm tingle rushing down his spine and into his groin. 

Dick bleeds into the shadows and watches for at least a half hour before Clint lands on the high platform, slings his bow over his shoulders, grabs the sides of the ladder and slides to the ground. His hair is dark and spiky with sweat, his shirt wet and clinging to his body. He picks up a water bottle and starts gulping it down.

Dick walks up behind him, stupidly nervous. He swallows before he says, “Hey, I’m looking for a friend of mine. Name’s Clint Barton. Know where I might find him?”

Clint spins around and his face lights up. “Dick!” Before he knows it, Clint has wrapped him in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground. When he returns Dick to his feet, Clint steps back a half step, looking a little embarrassed, but he’s still grinning. “I heard Haly’s got in. I was gonna come find you as soon as I finished.”

“Jeez, Natty, I…I hardly recognize you,” Dick stammers.

Clint laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess a had a little growth spurt.”

“A _little_? Nuh-uh.” Dick shakes his head. “A _big one.”_

“Yeah, well, you look different yourself.” Clint gives him a playful shove on his shoulder, and Dick would swear it feels warm where he touched him.

Yes, Dick’s four inches taller that he was the previous winter, and bulked up, but not like Clint. Where Clint’s new heft is bulging muscles from pulling against the draw of his bow, Dick is more lean and lithe; where Clint can power through moves by sheer strength, Dick has a more ingrained agility. 

“Barton!” Trick Shot yells from across the ring, and both of them snap their heads in his direction. “Get back to work!”

Clint turns and narrows his eyes at Trick Shot, glowering.

“Guess you better get back to it. Have t’ do what the boss says, right?”

A dark expression flashes across Clint’s face, there and gone in an instant. “He’s not my boss,” he says, jaw tight.

Dick blinks. “You’re…you’re not working with Trick Shot anymore?”

Clint bends down and picks up his bag of gear. “Nope. It’s still technically his show, but Mr. Carson is backing me. Trick can go screw himself. Come on, let’s get outta here.” He slings an arm over Dick’s shoulder, and steers them toward the exit without a look back.

They chatter all the way to the Grayson’s camp, catching up on the summer season and when they get to Dick’s trailer, his mom is just putting dinner out.

His dad pulls up a chair for Clint. “It’s good to see you back at our table, son, even if I hardly recognize you.”

Dick’s mom hums her agreement as she moves toward the table, giving Clint’s head a maternal caress, absently trying to pat down his wayward locks. “So handsome,” she says as she sits.

Which reminds Dick. “Oh! You should see the broadside Carson had made for him!”

Clint blushes crimson. “You saw that?”

“Hard to miss!” Dick turns to his parents. “It’s huge. Bigger than any I’ve ever seen, and completely different. Minnie says Mr. Carson paid a bundle for it.”

“You talked to Minnie?” Clint hisses at him, clearly mortified.

Dick snickers. “She’s a fan.”

Clint drops his face into his hands.

“All right, Dick, enough teasing. Let’s eat.” His dad hands him a plate and Dick scoops a large spoonful of savory rice onto it.

It feels right, having Clint back with them again, and within moments, completely natural, too. His parents pepper his friend with questions, and Clint alternately chews and talks. When Dick’s mom asks if he wants seconds, Clint refuses, saying he’s not hungry, but Dick drops another chicken leg-quarter on his plate anyway. Clint hesitates for a few seconds, then picks up his knife and fork.

Dick can’t stop staring. Clint is distracting as hell like this – grown up and bulked up and…very easy on the eyes. Dick doesn’t quite know what to do with himself half the time. But as the meal goes on, he realizes that he’s still just Clint, with his cocky grin and playful demeanor, and he finally starts to relax.

Once dinner is over, Clint drags Dick to the kitchen to clean up, and his parents say good night as they head out to visit friends they haven’t seen in six months.

As soon as they finish the dishes, Clint pulls his sweatshirt over his head. “I’m beat,” he says.

There are dark smudges under Clint’s eyes and weary creases on his face, so Dick doesn’t push for him to stay, despite how badly he wants to. “See you at school tomorrow?”

Clint’s eyes shift away from him. “Uh…”

“What?”

Clint frowns. “I can’t do school anymore.”

Dick’s stomach sinks. “At all?”

Clint shakes his head. “I work with the aerialists in the morning, with my bow in the early afternoon, and then combined after that.”  
  


“Oh, right, of course,” Dick says, trying to hide his disappointment.

“I’m sorry.”

Dick shakes it off. “Don’t be stupid. This is great for you, Clint.”

Clint’s face is a study in regret. “It’s just that I like school. I wish I could do both, but Mr. Carson said I had to choose and I don’t know if I’ll get another chance like this, you know?”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it,” Dick readily agrees. As disappointed as he is, he puts that aside because in the circus world, this kind of opportunity doesn’t come along every day.

* * *

“Mr. Grayson.” Miss Temple calls him over after class the next day. “Where’s your partner in crime? I heard that Carson’s arrived more than a week ago but I haven’t seen him.”

Dick nods. “He’s a headliner now, so he has to practice a lot more. He doesn’t have time for school anymore, Ma’am.” He can hear the disappoint that still sits in his chest.

She frowns. “That’s a shame. He seemed quite eager for school.”

“I know. He’d be here if he could.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do without him to help you with your trigonometry homework this year,” she teases.

Dick grimaces at the mention of math.

She looks thoughtful when she says, “I’ll tell you what, have him come see me when he has a chance. Maybe we can work something out.”

Dick bobs his head. “That’d be real nice of you, Miss Temple. I’ll let him know.”

* * *

Clint meets with Miss Temple and they decide he should go for his G.E.D. in the spring, so every day she sends work home with Dick, and the two of them go over it in the evenings. It’s a lot of work for Clint on top of his triple practices, but Dick is selfishly glad, because it means he still gets to see his friend nearly every day. When he can, Clint slips away from practice early and joins them for dinner, always helping Dick’s mom cook and diligently writing down every new recipe in his worn moleskin.

It’s not as carefree as the previous winters; instead of being lazy and wasting time roaming the groves, they spend a couple of hours in the evening going over the day’s lessons together, so Clint can stay caught up. It’s different from before, but it doesn’t feel wrong, because _they’re_ different. Older. More mature. And isn’t that part of the problem. There are more than a few nights when Dick’s grateful for the tablecloth that hides his obvious attraction to his friend. And just as many when he looks up to find Clint staring at him, or glimpses a flash of color on Clint’s cheeks before he darts out the door with barely a mumbled good-bye. 

* * *

One Wednesday in mid-December, when Clint doesn’t show up in the evening as expected, Dick goes looking. It’s not like Clint to just not show up unless there’s something wrong, so Dick’s mild worry is beginning to escalate to near panic when he can’t find his friend in any of the usual places. He sags in relief when he finally finds Clint in the Carson animal tent. He’s sitting on the floor of a cage next to a 350-pound tiger with its head in his lap. He has one hand tangled in the ruff of its neck, the other petting the creature soothingly.

“Hey,” Dick says, squatting down on the outside of the cage. The tiger lifts its head a tiny bit and looks at Dick, then drops it back down, tongue slipping out briefly.

“Hey,” Clint answers quietly. “Sorry I didn’t come by.” He doesn’t take his eyes from the tiger.

“’S okay. What’s going on?”

Clint eyes are shining with unshed tears when he says, “She’s dying. Been sick for a while, but Minnie went to get Doc.”

“I’m sorry.” Clint had told Dick lots of stories about the animals at Carson’s over the last few years, and he knew that this one – Mabel – was far and away Clint’s favorite.

Clint blows out a shaky breath and gives Dick a miserable smile before gazing back at the cat.

Dick shifts and sits cross-legged, and they stay quietly like that for a while – Dick has no idea how long – him on the outside, Clint on the inside, his hands gently stroking the tiger’s head while he murmurs words of comfort to her. Every now and then, between labored breathing, she sounds like she might be purring.

“You don’t have to stay,” Clint says eventually.

Dick grunts his disagreement and stays where he is.

Minnie must not have been able to find Carson’s vet because she arrives with Doc, from the Beezus outfit, who’s carrying a syringe. Trailing behind him are a couple of back yard boys with a canvas tarp. Clint bends over and wraps his arms around the cat’s neck in a tight hug.

“Clint,” Minnie says quietly, understanding in her voice and a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“It’s a kindness, son,” Doc says.

Clint nods into the tiger’s neck, and when he straightens up, he asks, “Can I stay?”

“Of course,” Doc says. “I’d appreciate it, actually, and I think she would, too.” He uncaps the syringe and Clint looks purposefully away, ducking his face into the fur again.

Five minutes later, it’s over, and Clint stands up and wipes his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He walks out of the tent without looking back and Dick follows him into the dark night.

Clint has stopped a few yards away under a tree. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sniffing hard and then wiping his nose and face with his sleeve again.

“’S alright. I get it.”

Clint shrugs, ducking his eyes away from Dick and back toward where the sliver of light is penetrating the darkness from the tent opening. “Don’t know why I’m crying like a little baby.”

“You lost someone important to you. It’s okay to cry about that.”

“She wasn’t a someone, she was just a cat.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, so quietly that Dick almost doesn’t hear it.

“Come on.” Dick tugs on the arm of his jacket. “Let’s go back to mine.”

Clint follows apathetically, without comment.

When they get to the Grayson’s camp, there’s a note from his parents telling him that they’ve gone to play cards at the Mortimors. Dick sets it aside and roots through the refrigerator, digging out the leftover pasta they’d had for dinner. He heats a plate for Clint and sets it down in front of him.

“Thanks,” Clint mumbles, picking up his fork.

“If, you know, you want to talk about it, I can listen.”

Clint gives him a weak smile then tucks into the food. He takes a few bites, chewing slowly. Eventually he swallows and says, “It’s just… when I first started with Carson’s, I took care of her, you know? I mean, I took care of all the animals, but she was always special.”

Dick nods. He gets it. Over the years, he’s gotten attached to some of the animals at Haly’s, too.

Clint pokes at the pasta with his fork. “When we were still in Iowa, I had a cat. Well, not exactly. It was wild and skittish and so skinny when I found it, but I’d save a little of my food for it every day and eventually I could coax it in close to feed it and pet it. After a while it would hang around me whenever I was home, sleep with me at night.”

Dick’s attention sharpens; Clint’s never really shared much of his life before Carson’s - just little snippets that revealed little of substance - except for that first winter when Barney had been sitting in jail and Clint had been practically starving. “What was its name?”

“I never knew if it was a boy or a girl, but it was orange and striped, like a tiger, so I named it ‘Stripe’.”

Dick grins and Clint flashes a self-deprecating smile and his cheeks pink up a tiny bit. “I was seven.”

“It’s a good name.”

Clint huffs and continues. “When they took us away, I had to leave it.” He sighs. “I always wonder what happened to it, but I don’t like to think about it.” After that, he doesn’t say anything more for several long minutes. Dick gets the impression that there’s more, so he just waits quietly while Clint eats the rest of his food. When he finishes, he pushes the plate back and sits up straight. “When I got to Carson’s, and Mabel was there, she was like a huge version of Stripe. I dunno.” He shrugs, squirming a little. “It just…it seemed like she was always happy to see me.” His eyes flicker, embarrassed, to Dick and then away.

“She was,” Dick says.

Clint looks up at him, considers for a moment. “Yeah, maybe. Probably it was just ‘cause I fed her.”

Dick shakes his head firmly. “No. Animals can tell when people like them.”

Clint looks lost in his thoughts for a few seconds, then gives Dick a small smile. “Yeah.”

Dick stands and picks up Clint’s dishes. “You look beat. Go on in and crash if you want.”

Clint stands too and tries to take the plate from Dick. “I can do that.”

Dick twists away so Clint can’t grab it from him. “I’ve got it. You go ahead.” He gestures with his chin toward the door to his tiny room.

Clint hesitates for a second then gives in, shoulders slumping wearily as he shuffles toward Dick’s bunk. It’s the first time Clint has landed on Dick’s bed this season. They’ve been studying together most nights, but Clint always packs up and goes home soon after, because his rigorous training schedule has him worn pretty thin. If Dick is honest with himself, it’s been something of a relief, since he’s pretty sure that having Clint lying so close would make it difficult to hide his burgeoning feelings.

Dick takes his time washing up, giving Clint a few minutes alone. He smiles at the thought of his mom’s face if she could see him voluntarily doing the dishes. When he finishes, he looks in his room to find Clint fully clothed but already sound asleep. He takes a deep breath, then slips inside, quietly sliding the accordion door closed. He toes off his shoes and pulls off his pants and sweater, dropping them on the floor, then slips on the sweats he usually sleeps in. He pulls the covers back on his side, then gently nudges his friend. “Natty. Shift a little, huh?”

Clint’s bleary eyes crack open and he blinks, then does what he’s told, rolling and scooting around until he’s under the blankets instead of on top. Dick climbs in beside him and curls onto his side so they’re facing each other. With both of them having grown so much in the past year, there’s considerably less room on the bed and Clint is that much closer. Dick hits the switch to turn off the light, and a moment later, in the dark, Clint’s warm hand snakes into his own, threading their fingers together.

Dick freezes and his heart pounds, unsure what to think. They’ve always been comfortable touching each other, but never like this. This feels…different. Intimate, even. And, shit, all it takes is for that thought to enter his head before he feels the blood in his body rushing south. He can barely breathe through the wave of desire that crashes over him. He wants to jam his fist into his sweatpants and stroke himself off, or alternatively, roll onto his stomach and grind against the mattress. What he should do is get up and go into the bathroom to deal with it. But there’s no way in hell he’s letting go of Clint’s hand.

Instead, he forces himself to relax, closing his eyes against temptation, even though all he can see is a dim outline of his friend. He takes slow, steady breaths, and makes a herculean effort to will away his erection. After many – _many_ \- long, uncomfortable minutes, it finally works and Dick somehow manages to drift off.

The next morning, when Dick blinks his eyes open, Clint is awake and staring down to where their hands are still joined. A second later, it registers for Dick that Clint’s thumb is lightly stroking over his hand. Dick’s half-hard seconds later, and he’s thankful as hell that he’s still under his blanket, but he can’t stop himself from shifting a little. Clint snaps his eyes up to Dick’s, then jerks his hand away before blushing furiously and bolting from the trailer. 

Dick sighs and roll on to his back, then jams his hand down his pants and takes care of his problem.

* * *

They both work hard during the week so they can have a little time on weekends to just hang out and be teenaged boys. Dick’s dad is teaching them both to drive and he lets them cruise slowly around the backroads in the Grayson pick-up when it’s light out. With them both busier than ever before, autumn seems to fly by, and before they know it, Christmas is upon them.

On Christmas morning, he paces around, anxious for Clint to arrive so he can give him his gift. He’d invited his friend to spend the night on Christmas Eve, but Clint declined, mumbling something about Barney. Dick suspects it has more to do with the last time Clint stayed the night, though. Since then, Dick’s looked up from his books more than once to find Clint staring at him, only to quickly duck his eyes back down and away.

When Clint finally arrives, Dick’s so excited he could explode as he drags him to the living room and pushes him into a chair where he lands with a grunt and a quizzical expression. The lights from the small Christmas tree bathe the room in a warm, festive glow, and as Dick carefully sets a shoebox on Clint’s lap, he can’t help noticing how the colors dance across Clint’s features, making his eyes sparkle a blue-green color.

Clint lifts the gift and looks at it - the box and the lid are wrapped separately, so the top can simply be lifted off – and raises an eyebrow at Dick.

“Just open it!” Dick says impatiently.

Clint squints suspiciously at the box before looking up at Dick and his parents. Dick looks to the side to see his parents’ smiles match his own. Clint continues to look leery, but after a short hesitation, he finally lifts the lid off the box. Inside, curled onto a small towel, is a tiny, sleeping, calico cat. The kitten’s eyes blink open and it lifts its head at the sudden intrusion of light.

Clint sucks in a breath. “Where did you get it?”

“At school, Pauly from Beezus was talking about a cat that hangs around their camp and how it had a litter of kittens right after they got to winter quarters. I went to see, and they were all grey and white except for this one. Doc thought it would be okay if I took one since they’re feral. I figured you could give it a good home.”

Clint picks up the tiny creature and holds it against his chest with one hand while stroking it lightly with the other. Dick can tell his friend is trying to keep a lid on his emotions, but his eyes look suspiciously shiny anyway. He blinks and a single tear slips out but is quickly wiped away as his face pinks in embarrassment. No one comments on it, and Dick reaches out to pet the kitten with one finger. “Doc says to make sure to keep it warm.”

Clint nods, never taking his eyes from the kitten. “Yeah, I can do that,” he says, gently tucking it closer to his body. 

That night, Clint stays. He falls asleep curled onto his side with the kitten tucked into the crook of his elbow. Dick smiles at the sight and reaches up, tapping the new carving that was added to his collection that day – an intricate, bow-wielding aerialist who swings gracefully alongside the other three.

* * *

In mid-January, Dick gets a cold that turns into a cough that he assiduously ignores. A week or so later, he stumbles into his room after school and flops onto his bed, reaching to pull the quilt over himself. He just needs to rest a bit until it’s time to go train. The next thing he knows, the mattress dips and he opens his eyes to see his dad, watching him with a worried expression.

“You okay, Dickybird?”

Dick opens his mouth to answer, to tell him that he’s just a little tired, but a fit of coughing overtakes him.

“Seems like that cold of yours has gotten worse.” He puts a hand to Dick’s forehead and frowns. “Feels like you’ve got a fever.”

Dick grunts and struggles to sit up. “I’m okay. Is it time for practice?” The words are barely out before he starts coughing again. 

His dad’s brow furrows, and he gently pushes Dick back to lying down. “You stay in bed. I’m going to go find Dr. Rupert.”

Dick barely has the energy to nod before closing his eyes.

Minutes after his dad returns with the doctor and the man puts a stethoscope to Dick’s chest, his parents are bundling him into their truck, and, before he knows it, he’s being admitted to the local hospital. They wheel him into a room and plug him into an IV, and he spends the next few days in a fevered, coughing haze, barely registering what’s going on around him as doctors and nurses and his parents come and go.

At one point he wakes with a coughing fit and when he finally gets it under control and rolls over, he sees Clint sitting in the chair that one of his parents usually occupies. He’s wearing a stricken expression, and his hands are white-knuckle fists in his lap.

“What are you doing here?” Dick asks around gasping breaths.

Clint scowls at him. “You’re sick.”

Dick casts a glance out the window at the mid-day sun. “Yeah, and it’s the middle of the day. Shouldn’t you be practicing?” His voice is gravely and hoarse.

“You’re in the _hospital_.”

Dick’s too tired to argue the point so he just flaps a hand weakly. “I just have pneumonia. I’ll be better soon.”

“It’s not _just_ pneumonia, Dick. Pneumonia’s _bad._”

“I’ll be fine.” Dick closes his eyes. He’s so tired.

After a long beat, Clint says, “You promise?”

Dick drags his eyes open and looks at his friend. He’s never heard Clint sound so…scared before. “Hey. Yeah, yeah, I promise, Natty. I’m gonna be fine, okay?”

A beat later, Clint’s expression shifts into something harder. It’s a front that Dick can see right through. “You better be or I’ll kick your ass.”  
  


“_Your_ ass,” Dick says, because he’s too sick and fevered to filter the thoughts that always seem to be at the fore of his brain lately. Clint blushes and looks away, and Dick quickly closes his eyes and feigns sleep. 

* * *

His parents bring him home a couple days later; he barely makes it to his bed before collapsing and immediately falling asleep. When he wakes up – having no idea how much later – Clint is sitting next to him playing with the calico kitten he’d named Tiger.

“Hey, Dick,” Clint croons softly when he sees he’s awake. “Your mom said I should ask you if you want something to eat when you woke up. Are you hungry?”

Dick rolls onto his side and pets the kitten. “Soup?” he rasps, looking up at his friend’s worried face. “Mom’s special soup,” he clarifies. His mom makes the best chicken soup when he’s sick, and eating it always makes him feel better; he swears it has magical properties.

“Uh, okay. I’ll check with her.”

“Thanks,” Dick murmurs.

He listlessly plays with Tiger, and then apparently falls asleep again, because the next thing he knows, Clint is nudging him. When Dick sees the bowl of soup that Clint is carrying and he sits up and makes grabby hands toward it. Clint rolls his eyes, but then laughs, and puts the tray on Dick’s lap.

* * *

Dick spends the next couple of weeks doing not much more than lying in bed and coughing. A couple of times he tries to suit up and go practice, but his mom clucks at him and sends him back to bed. In a reversal of the fall, Clint collects both of their homework from Miss Temple and comes in the evenings, and they try to muddle through it together. They’re reading “Lord of the Flies”, so Clint spends several evening hours reading to Dick, while Dick lies lethargically, or pets the kitten. He enjoys those evenings more than he wants to admit.

Two weeks after getting home from the hospital, Dick’s bored out of his mind lying in bed all day and night, so when his parents leave, he sneaks out to find Clint. He checks the tents first, but having no luck, he heads to the Bartons’ trailer. He’s about to knock on the door when he hears voices and then spies his friend and Trick Shot through a crack in the curtain.

Trick Shot is standing behind Clint, one arm wrapped around his chest. His other hand is cupped around Clint’s neck as he murmurs into Clint’s ear. Clint clearly doesn’t like it – his body is a study in tension, rigid from head to toe – but he isn’t doing anything to stop it.

Dick presses closer, straining to hear what they’re saying, but he can’t. Trick Shot murmurs something in Clint’s ear, causing Clint to shudder visibly. He laughs and pulls Clint in closer, causing a klaxon to go off in Dick’s head. Nothing about this seems right.

Trick Shot’s hand moves higher and his thumb traces over Clint’s bottom lip. Clint’s whole-body jerks and he twists violently out of Trick Shot’s hold, backs away, but then steps forward again and gets up in his face. It sort of startles Dick to notice that Clint now towers over Trick Shot.

“If you touch me again, I’ll kill you,” Clint says, low and threatening, but clearly audible to Dick.

Trick Shot doesn’t appear intimidated and he chuckles. “Oh, I’d like to see you try, boy.”

“Fuck you,” Clint seethes, hands balled into fists at his side.

Trick Shot laughs again. “Oh? I had the impression you didn’t like that, but I’m happy to oblige again any time you want.”

Clint pushes past him, heading for the door, knocking shoulders hard as he goes. Dick scrambles to back down the three steps, but more than two weeks in bed have caught up with him because he loses his footing and falls on his ass with a grunt.

Clint bursts out the door but stops abruptly when he sees Dick. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hisses, reaching out and yanking Dick roughly to his feet.

Before Dick can answer, Trick Shot is standing in the doorway.

“Oh, he’s got a pretty mouth, too. Bring him along with you tonight if you want,” he says, and then guffaws as he hops down the steps and walks away, whistling into the dark.

Dick blinks. “What the hell was that?”

Clint looks quickly over his shoulder at Trick Shot’s receding figure, then pulls Dick in the opposite direction, toward the Grayson camp. “Nothin’. Whaddaya doing here? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Dick grunts in frustration. “I’m fine. And sick of lying around. I was gonna see if you wanted to go catch some air.”

“Your parents said another week before you can start practicing again,” he says. He pulls on Dick’s jacket again to drag him away. “Come on.”

  
“Where’re we going?”

“Your place, so you can go back to bed.” The words are clipped and impatient.

Dick tugs himself out of his friend’s grip. “Clint, wait. What the hell _was_ that back there?”

Clint face is a blank mask when he says, “Nothing.”

“Clint, I _saw_ him. The way he was touching you. And what he said. It sounded like—”

Clint crosses his arms and firms his mouth.

The implications of everything he saw and heard - just now and in previous winters - are suddenly horrifyingly clear. “Oh, God,” he breathes out. “You…you said he wasn’t hurting you anymore,” Dick stammers.

Clint looks away for a few seconds before saying. “I said he wasn’t _hitting_ me anymore.”

Dick gapes at him. “Clint,” he says, barely more than a whisper. He can’t put together a coherent thought through the turmoil swirling in his head.

“Dick, don’t,” Clint says sharply. “Just don’t, alright? I’m fine. It’s over. Trick thinks he still has a hold over me but he doesn’t. He says he’ll tell everyone if I don’t do what he wants but he won’t because he knows he’ll get in trouble if he does.” His voice is determined but Dick can hear the undercurrent of fear.

Dick searches for the right words to say. “You need to tell Mr. Carson. Or the police.”

Clint sighs. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

Dick shakes his head. “It’s different.”

“No, it’s not.” He sounds so weary; much more weary than a kid of 16 ever should. “This is what life is for trash like me.”

“Don’t say that about yourself,” Dick shouts. “You’re not _trash!_”. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he starts to cough uncontrollably. Eventually, the effort to stand straight gets to be too much and he bends over with his hands on his knees.

Clint’s hand is there immediately, rubbing soothing circles on his back. As soon as his coughing fit subsides, Clint tugs him upright and pulls him into an embrace. Dick doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms tightly around his friend. “It’s not right,” he murmurs into Clint’s neck. “This shouldn’t happen to you.”

“It’s not happening anymore. I’m okay, Dick. Trust me.”

Dick so tired he can barely stand, but he stays where he is, unable to bring himself to let go of his friend. None of this is right, but Dick has no idea what to do. Clint seems so sure, and he _does_ trust him. He just hates it.

A minute later, Clint slides his hands to Dick’s arms and gently pushes the two of them apart. “You okay?” he asks.

Dick scoffs and wipes his tear-streaked face. “You asking _me_ that?”

“Yeah, I am.” His eyes search Dick’s face. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”

Dick closes his eyes and admits, “I kinda feel like it.”

“Let’s get you home.” Clint wraps an arm around Dick’s shoulders and starts to guide him toward the Grayson camp, then stops suddenly. “Hang on a second,” he says, and sprints back to his trailer. When he comes out, he’s settling Tiger into his jacket. He puts his arm back around Dick’s shoulders and half-carries him home.

When they get there, Dick draws on all his reserves, pushes Clint into a chair at the table, and goes to heat up leftover soup for both of them. Clint rolls his eyes and huffs, but doesn’t comment. Dick serves up two bowls and they eat quietly while Tiger mews. Clint leaves a little bit of broth in the bottom of his bowl and sets it down for the kitten to greedily lap up.

Dick leans his head against the back of the banquette and closes his eye; he’s completely out of steam. The soup was good, as usual; it filled him up and warmed him up. But it didn’t do a damn thing for the sick feeling in his gut.

“You should go to bed,” Clint tells him as he hoists Dick up and drags him toward his room.

“Mmm,” Dick hums his agreement. “Will you stay?”

Clint hesitates for a second, then says, “Yeah, I’ll stay. Lemme go clean up and then I’ll be back in.”

Dick nods and strips out of his shirt and pants before climbing under the blankets, too tired to bother with his sweats. A second later, Clint deposits Tiger next to him and Dick’s hand automatically starts petting. He can hear Clint rattling around in the kitchen, washing the soup bowls and the pot. He distantly registers when Clint comes back in and climbs into the bed, but he’s on the brink of sleep and can’t quite open his eyes again. The next time he manages it, it’s fully daylight and Clint has already left to go to practice.

When Clint brings their school work that night, Dick tries to talk to him about it some more, but he just smiles and brushes Dick off, and they don’t say anything more about it.

* * *

One night in mid-March, after working on homework for a couple hours and then leaving, Clint comes back to Dick’s, late, tapping on his bedroom window so Dick’s parents won’t hear. Surprised, Dick tiptoes out and unlocks the door for him, and they both creep through the dark trailer toward Dick’s room.

“What’s going on?” Dick whispers.

“Do you have an icepack?” Clint whispers back as they pass quietly through the kitchen.

“Yeah,” Dick whispers and diverts toward the freezer.

Clint goes ahead to Dick’s bedroom, and when Dick closes the door and flicks on the light, he can see a bruise starting to bloom on Clint’s cheekbone. “What happened?”

Clint pushes out an angry breath. “Barney,” is all he says. Clint digs into his hoodie pocket and tugs Tiger out, then carefully sets her on the bed.

“He hit you?” Dick asks as he passes the ice pack to his friend.

Clint nods, putting the ice on his knuckles rather than his face.

“And you hit him back,” Dick observes, then slinks back into the kitchen for another ice pack. A moment later, he’s pressing it to Clint’s bruised cheekbone. Clint puts his hand over Dick’s to take over, and Dick doesn’t stop himself from letting his hand linger for a couple of seconds before pulling it away.

Clint stares at Dick’s hand for several seconds, then blinks up at him. “I hit Duquesne, not Barney.”

“Why?”

“The two of them—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Natty, what?”

“I walked into the trailer, and Barney and Duquesne were counting a stack of bills.”

“Maybe they won it playing poker,” Dick suggests. Barney and the Swordsman are both regulars at the circus card tables.

“I don’t think so,” Clint says darkly. “When I was coming back from here earlier, I cut through Tent 3, and the regular game was going on, but Barney and Duquesne weren’t there. They got that money somewhere else, and wherever that was, I would bet it wasn’t legit.”

“Are you sure? Maybe they found another game?” Dick suggests.

Clint’s eyes flick to Dick and a beat later, he smiles. “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

The smile looks forced and Dick gets the feeling that Clint’s humoring him. He’s about to press further when his friend stands up.

“Thanks for the ice packs.”

Dick scrambles to his feel as well. “Sure. Hey, why don’t you stay? You don’t wanna run into them again tonight.” He’d recently decided that the proximity-induced discomfort at having Clint close, was preferable to not having Clint around; everything seemed…duller, when Clint wasn’t there.

Clint hesitates, his eyes flicking to Dick’s mouth and back up before he shifts awkwardly and looks over his shoulder toward the door.

As much as Dick wants Clint to stay because he just wants Clint to stay, he has a bad feeling about the whole thing – worried about what might happen if he runs into Barney and the Swordsman again tonight - so he presses. “Come on. It’s late and you’re already here.”

Clint hesitates again, but then acquiesces. “Yeah, okay, maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

They both climb into the bed and Tiger takes up a position in between them. The cat feels like some sort of guard, meant to keep the two of them away from each other. It’s something of a relief to Dick, if he’s honest. Clint lays on his side so the ice pack can rest on his cheek without him holding it. Dick snorts and Clint gives him a crooked grins and then falls asleep within moments, Tiger burrowing in close to him. Dick waits and watches. After about fifteen minutes have passed, he carefully lifts the ice packs off of Clint’s face and hand, sets them on the floor, and then closes his own eyes, pleading with his body to ignore the fact that Clint is here in his bed.

* * *

The last month of winter quarters, Clint is mostly a walking, talking zombie. He has three practices a day, then he studies after dinner with Dick. When Dick starts to fade a couple hours later, he knows that Clint goes home and studies more, determined to pass his GED at the end of the month.

Dick’s 16th birthday is on a Sunday, so Clint skips the light practice he usually does and they spend one last day roaming the groves, climbing trees, trying to out-do each other with their dismounts. It’s been a long time since they’ve had a whole day to just goof off; it feels like they’re twelve years old again, but it also feels like the end of something and the beginning of something else. As the winter has passed, Dick’s hands itch that much more to reach out and touch Clint, and he’s almost certain Clint feels the same way because there’s been an increasingly different energy between them.

He’s pretty sure he knows how Clint feels and more than anything, he wants to act on it. He’s got enough confidence after the previous summer to be fairly certain he knows what he’s doing, but… But, after everything Clint’s been through, he’s not going to be the one to make the first move. If something is going to happen between them, that has to be Clint’s choice, no matter how much it’s killing Dick to be so close all the time and not touch. So he waits, hoping that he hasn’t been wrong about how Clint feels, and hoping even more that Clint will do something about it.

* * *

On March 30th, Miss Temple drives Clint to a GED testing center in Tampa to take his exam. They leave before dawn for the all-day test, and they don’t expect to be back until very late. It takes a few hours to get the test results and they’ll stay until they get them since Clint doesn’t exactly have mail service when he’s on the road with Carson’s. The day drags on interminably for Dick.

His parents retire at about 10, leaving Dick alone to fidget impatiently. At 11:30, he finally hears a tap at his window. He’s up in a flash, unlocking the door for Clint to slip through. He doesn’t even have to ask, the beaming grin on Clint’s face tells the whole story.

“You passed!” Dick whispers happily.

Clint nods and grins some more.

“Come on,” Dick says, grabbing the celebratory pan of brownies he’d managed to make all by himself (okay, so it was a box mix), since he never had any doubt that Clint would succeed. He leads them into his room and puts the pan on the bed between them. “What did you get.”

“A 788,” Clint tells him proudly.

Dick whistles. “That’s practically a perfect score.”

Clint digs a brownie out of the pan and takes a massive bite. He groans in pleasure and lies on his side, head propped in his hand. “This is so good.”

“Mm hmm,” Dick agrees, chewing his own.

Clint rambles on, giving Dick all the details of the exam while they scarf down three-quarters of the pan of brownies.

“I knew you’d do well,” Dick tells him as they’re lying facing each other on the bed.

“You always believe in me.”

“Of course I do,” he says matter-of-factly.

The energy in the room shifts suddenly, and Dick can tell by Clint’s expression that Clint feels it, too. Dick blinks and looks at Clint’s mouth just as his tongue flicks out and wets his lips. When he looks back up at Clint, his expression is sharp with intent, and a warmth rockets down Dick’s spine. The charged moment ignites, and Dick tosses the pan of brownies on the floor, and they both lean in toward each other.

At first, it’s just a gentle touch of lips and then Clint pulls back. His face is flushed and his pupils are dark as he studies Dick’s face. Then – thank god - he licks his lips and leans in again.

This time he presses harder and their lips slot together. Dick gathers his courage and opens his mouth a fraction, sneaking his tongue between Clint’s lips. Clint makes a small sound in the back of his throat, and at first Dick isn’t sure if it’s good or bad, but a second later, Clint’s tongue is there, sliding tentatively over his, and Dick can taste the chocolate of the brownie Clint has just eaten. It’s a little awkward until they both relax, soften their mouths, and find their rhythm, but once they do, it’s…so much better than Dick ever imagined.

Clint shifts slightly and Dick can feel the scratch of Clint’s stubble, the rough scrape of it so different from kissing a girl, and it goes straight to his groin. Dick can feel his heart beating faster, and he leans in, needing to be closer, to take the kiss deeper. 

After a few minutes, Dick’s cock is straining against his jeans, and he’s desperate to touch Clint – to have Clint touch him – so when he feels Clint’s hand settle on his hip, a gentle touch of his palm, Dick instinctively pushes forward to press against Clint, groaning a little as he does.

But as quickly as Clint’s touch had been there, it disappears, and so does the rest of Clint, and his warmth, and, worst of all, his mouth. Sitting up, Clint puts distance between them. “I should go,” he says quickly, and moves to stand up.

Dick sits up and grabs Clint’s hand, stopping him. “You don’t have to,” he pants, slightly breathless. He shifts on the bed, finding the constriction in his pants uncomfortable.

Clint lets out a shaky breath and runs his free hand through his messy hair. He laughs a little. “Uh, yeah, I really do. If we don’t stop—"

“I don’t want to stop.” Dick interjects.

Clint arousal is as clearly visible as Dick’s, but he says, “I don’t either, but—"

“Good. Then we don’t _have_ to.” He shifts closer, inching across the bed, closer to Clint.

Clint puts a hand to Dick’s chest. “We _do_ have to. Dick, you’re 16.”

Dick furrows his brow. “So? So’re you.”

Clint stares down at where Dick’s fingers are still encircling his wrist. “Dick,” he says softly but firmly, “the legal age of consent in Florida is 18.”

Dick makes a frustrated noise. “You think I’m not capable of giving my consent?”

“You may _think_ you want—"

“What I want is to keep kissing you. And to touch you. And for you to touch me. God, I’ve wanted that for _months_. _Come on_, Clint,” he cajoles.

Clint’s face hardens and his voice is tight when he says, “It would be illegal for me to do that to you.”

Dick gapes at him. “For you to _do that_ to me? You wouldn’t be _doing_ anything _to_ me, we’d be doing stuff together. Stuff we both want to do.”

Clint shakes his head. “It would be wrong.”

“This is about you and me, Natty, and there’s no wrong there. Are you going to deny that you want this?”

He hesitates before he answers. “No.”

Dick smirks triumphantly and moves closer. “Then there’s no problem.”

“God, Dick, you’re so…”

Dick stops and cocks his head, ready to argue the point if Clint says ‘young’, or ‘naïve’. “I’m so, what?”

Clint stares at him for a moment, then gives him a small smile. “You’re a good person, Dick. You deserve better.”

“_You’re_ a good person, too,” Dick counters fiercely.

Clint sighs. “I’m not.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I’m tainted. Trash. Everybody knows it.”

“You are _not!_” Dick practically yells, then casts an eye toward his closed door and pitches his voice lower. “Clint, the things you’re talking about…they’re not who you are, those are things that were done _to_ you. You can’t seriously equate you and me kissing - or whatever else - because we both want to, to the things Trick Shot did to you.”

Clint flinches and then his face shuts down. “I gotta go.” He jerks his wrist free from Clint’s grip and is up and has fled the Grayson trailer practically before Dick can take another breath.

“Clint, wait!” Dick scrambles off the bed after his friend, but he’s already disappeared into the dark by the time Dick makes his way to the door.

At the other end of the trailer, Dick’s dad pokes his head out of their bedroom. “Dick? What’s going on? Why are you up?”

“Sorry, Dad. Uh, Clint just stopped to tell me he passed the test.”

There’s a beat before he says, “I’m glad he passed, but it’s late. Go to bed, Son.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dick mumbles, and after another long look into the darkness, he closes the trailer door and does as he’s told. In his room, he flops onto his back and wraps his arms across his face, groaning in frustration. _Shit_.

* * *

Clint doesn’t show up the next day at all, and Dick doesn’t think he’s ever known such despair. They’ve only got another 24 hours before the troupes all break winter camp and Dick’s sick with the thought that he may not see Clint again – may not ever kiss him again. His parents ask after Clint when he doesn’t show up for dinner, and they exchange a worried look when Dick shrugs and says he doesn’t know where his friend is.

But as everyone is busy stowing things to move out for the season the next day, Clint _does_ show up, and Dick’s heart jackrabbits in his chest. His dad nods with understanding in his eyes and lets Dick skip out on the final push to break camp. He follows Clint into the orange grove where they stop under the big tree they’ve climbed the most over the last few years. Clint doesn’t say anything at first, and Dick waits him out.

“I didn’t want to leave things like that,” he finally says.

Relief washes over Dick. “Neither did I.”

“The thing is,” Clint continues, his gaze resolutely fixed over Dick’s shoulder. “I’m damaged goods. And you’re _Dick Grayson_. You deserve better.” His eyes flick nervously to Dick.

Dick rolls his eyes. “Well, I am Dick Grayson, I’ll give you that much,” he says wryly. “But the rest of it is about the stupidest bunch of bullshit that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

“It’s the truth,” Clint grits out, looking away again.

“It’s not.” Dick steps up close to Clint and pulls him into a hug. “And you’re an idiot to think that way,” he says into Clint’s neck.

“You’re being naïve,” Clint murmurs, but his arms slide in surrender around Dick, and he squeezes a little as he bends his head down and hooks his chin over Dick’s shoulder.

Dick scoffs. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Of course, I do. I trust you more than anyone else in the world.”

“Then trust me – believe me – when I tell you that this is something I want. It’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, and you’re not taking advantage of me or abusing me when you kiss me…or touch me.”

They stand quietly for a moment before Clint says, “You could have _anyone_. What would you want with me?”

Dick ignores the question in favor of putting one gentle hand on Clint’s hip, the other he threads through Clint’s hair, tugging his head up. A moment later, their lips meet in a soft press. Clint is a little stiff at first, but then he relents and seems to melt into it. Dick does the same.

They kiss for a few moments, but eventually Clint pulls back, just far enough to rest his forehead against Dick’s. He sighs. “I have to go.”

“I know. I want to kiss you again.”

Clint snorts a little. “Always so demanding, Grayson.”

“Mmm,” Dick acknowledges, then does what he wants.

By the time they pull apart, Dick is half-hard in his pants and Clint appears to be in the same condition.

“I really have to go,” Clint says, clearly regretting the fact.

Dick drops his forehead to Clint’s collarbone and groans. “Why did we wait so long to do this?”

Clint huffs, lifts Dick’s chin with his hand, and gives him one more sweet kiss before untangling himself from Dick’s arms and turning to go. Before he disappears into the grove, he turns and gives Dick the brightest smile he’s ever seen.

But the thing is, it doesn’t feel right. So, as Clint is poised to disappear deeper into the grove and back toward Carson’s, Dick digs deep for his courage and calls out to him. When Clint turns, Dick trots up, stopping a couple feet from his friend.

“Hey, Clint.”

Clint groans and rolls his eyes. “Seriously? You called me back to tell me one of your corny jokes?”

Dick can hear the affection in his voice, though, and it makes his stomach curl with pleasure, gives him the courage to keep going. “No, no listen. I’ve been saving this one for a while.” He flashes a nervous smile.

His unease must be obvious because Clint’s brows dart inward for a second. “Okay, go ahead then.” He cocks his head a tiny fraction.

Dick’s belly squirms. “Did I…did I tell you how I…fell in love over a backflip?” 

Clint’s eyes go wide for an instant and there’s a beat before he says, “Dick…” a little soft, a little breathless.

“I was head over heels,” he finishes, then clears his throat nervously while Clint just _stares_ at him.

“That’s…” Clint swallows. “That’s a terrible joke,” he says, his voice raspy, his hands twitching at his side.

“The thing is,” Dick lifts his chin and looks Clint in the eyes. “It’s not really a joke.”

Clint blows out an audible breath and turns his head to stare at the trees for a moment. When he turns back, his eyes are shining and he pulls Dick into a fierce hug. “I love you, too,” he says - more a strangled whisper than anything - before he disengages.

They grin sheepishly at each other before Clint says, “I _really _have to go.”

“I know. See you next winter.”

Clint smiles. “Yeah. See you next winter.”

Dick steps back and does a quick backflip for effect and Clint laughs, then turns and dashes back to his own camp.

When he gets back to their trailer, his parents have it all packed and ready to leave. As it jerks out of their tidy campsite, Dick stumbles to his room and pulls out the poster he’s kept carefully hidden all winter. He knew it would have embarrassed Clint if he’d put it up before, but now he can finally tack it to his wall. As they leave their winter quarters behind them, Dick stares at the poster and presses his fingers to his lips, which still tingle with the sense memory of their kisses.

He pulls out his lucky coin, fingering it’s bent shape and smoothly flipping it through his calloused fingers. Somehow it feels like a promise of things to come. They’re only a mile down the road to summer season, but Dick’s never looked more forward to getting back to winter quarters.

Of course, Dick doesn’t know it at the time, but in the upcoming year, _everything_ will change for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this chapter really got away from me and ended up being much longer than I intended, not to mention it gave me fits and took me much longer than I intended. Hope it worked for you. I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Regardless, thanks so much for reading this crazy rarepair fic!
> 
> 10-2-20: I finally finished the auction fic and I am back working on this fic! I should have the last chapter up soon! Thanks for your patience.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to writing anything related to DCU, so please be gentle with me. That said, I'd really appreciate any feedback you might want to share.
> 
>   
This story is part of the [LLF* Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject) whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors.
> 
> This author invites:
> 
> *Short comments  
*Long comments  
*Questions  
*Reader/reader interaction
> 
>   
[LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)
> 
>   
Author responses: This author replies to comments. If you don't want a reply for any reason whatsoever (you feel shy, you have anxiety, just because), feel free to sign your comment with "whisper" and I will appreciate the comment and respect your wish that I not respond.
> 
> *LLF = Long Live Feedback
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [teeelsie-posts](https://teeelsie-posts.tumblr.com/). Feel free to send messages or asks over there.


End file.
